Ernie laughed. "Well, it sounds pretty stale to me."
Jory sighed and gave up reading. He put the book down. "No, it isn't stale. The book does depress me, though." He pushed it to one side.
His eyes traveled around the cafeteria; he thought for a moment then said: "Do you ever get the feeling, Ernie, that your life has gotten stuck? That you are just going round and round, caught in one single groove—that you just repeat the same scene, day after day?"
Ernie shook his head. "Nah. I never feel like that."
"I do. I get to feeling it bad, sometimes. Why do you suppose that is, Ernie?"
Ernie considered the question for a moment. "Well," he said helpfully, "it might mean you're cracking up."
Jory laughed. "Thanks. But when I need an analyst I'll go out and hire one. No, I think I feel that way because life has somehow become a lot more futile than it need be."
Ernie shrugged and let it go. He wiped the last trace of spaghetti sauce from his plate. Jory got funny moods—probably because he read so much, Ernie suspected—but he was a good man. All the guys in the plant figured Jory for a regular guy. He liked to read some pretty funny books, but so what? It was his eyesight, wasn't it?
Ernie remembered something else. "Hey," he said to Jory as he lit a cigarette, "Harrigan over in the tool room told me that you write stories. That right?"