Little Fidget

Little Fidgit hasn’t learned his place yet. He yips and quakes, staying low and holding fast to every turn in the hallway. Everything is a resounding Yes! with Fidgit, although he has only a nominal idea of what he’s agreed to. He’s Fired Up, no question. Eager as a feisty, golden-haired pup to Get Out There, wherever that is.
Fidgit has filters, though most of them are broken or torn - like screen doors on a faded manse out where the moss hangs high. He registers the sullen warnings and knows he should be taking care, but he’s uneasy. Agitating fitfully between staying Fired Up and staying low.

Fidgits voice gets higher every day. At the beginning he kept it well modulated, with an edge of sincerity that betrayed his confusion. But now his voice is a staccato chirp, every vowel truncated and every consonant clipped. He finds that holding fiercely onto the tabletops can keep him in position, ready for action, focused and firm. He realizes with a quick filter check that memorizing the faces and names is a good first step, but he can’t quite make eye contact with any of them yet, and this is priority number one. Where is the manual?

At night, travelling home, he stares at the windows of passing cars, categorizing their occupants. A secret index of license plate numbers has been created (another filter) and he’s busy cross-cataloging hairstyles with vanity plates until his head grows heavy and soft. With his chin bobbing up and down to the hidden rhythms of the gear-shifting traffic, he allows the softness fuller access to his limbs. He believes that, yes, as so many have offered today, that he really did have a "good one".