The Juxtaposition of Brown

Abstract

The Juxtaposition of Brown Laura C. Weber (bio) I had been writing a letter to my superior over a period of four weeks in defense of my ascendancy over my co-workers. After all, I was clearly the most educated in the matter, and, frankly, I consider it the duty of the educated to set the ignorant straight of their illiteracies. I had been an English and British Literature major for my bachelor's and master's degrees, respectively. What did my boss and my fellow employees at Chip's Paint Chips know about Joyce and Keats? What of Austen and Woolf? And so I decided, as it were, that I must move on to more advantageous career paths—more specifically, to writing and publishing my forthcoming book. To properly head the letter, I began, "Mine Own Two Weeks Notice." I worked and reworked each sentence to achieve the appropriate effect of wit and charm, trying my best to avoid what could be perceived as condescension, which it most assuredly was not. True, there is nothing like a good smite once in a while (and grant you, I was well beyond my smite-control breaking point), but this was neither the time nor the place. I made sure to employ as many big words as possible to give but a taste of my inner cornucopia of wordage. I used "pedantic" and "nihilist" and "rhododendron." I considered informing my supervisor that "stewardesses" is the longest word in the English language that one can type on a keyboard utilizing the left hand only, but decided against it for reasons of caricature. By the time I had written "Yours Truly," I had long since forgotten my concern over vanity and had acquiesced to at least six self-pats on the back. My job description was "Head Color Namographer" of the Browns and Reds Department, a title that I abhorred for the fanciful word. However, I never denied pity for the poor soul who invented it. Most likely the holder of an associate's degree, at best. What did he know of Dickens? What of Stevenson? I had developed an undesirable hatred for those outside of Browns and Reds. I was left watching minutes tick by on my desk clock while Donny, a fellow patron of the color-naming arts, was restful from nine to five in Blues and Greens. Something about that department pained me. The people always seemed intellectually stimulated and had a slightly patronizing bounce in their step. Perhaps it was the hues and tints of the [End Page 3] colors. Any form of aqua can have a soothing effect, what with names like "Seafoam." Conversely, staring at a brown or a red all day can really sear away at a person's soul. (Remember: Searing Soul) How many more "Burnt Siennas" would I have to title "Hot Chocolate" or "Chilean Stew" or "Kidney Bean" before I went absolutely bananas? And then there was Donny with his thick hair and his thick smile and his thick fingers, but—most importantly—his thick thesaurus. He only needed to open that imbecilic book to gather as many words as there are days in a lifetime to replace "thick" with "bulky," "burly," "coagulated," or "gelatinous." No one said you couldn't use a thesaurus, but it was in my nature to believe that it was cheating. How could one not be totally satisfied in a world eased by short cuts and colors waiting to be named "Summer Breeze" and "Cool as a Cucumber"? Give me a break. Blues and Greens were practically a holiday next to the burning hell of Browns and Reds. (Remember: Burning Hell) There was so much more potential, so many more avenues to pursue. Day in and day out, after finishing my daily naming of "Flame" and "Lipstick," I fantasized about screaming at Donny and giving him the finger. I'd say, "Fuck you Donny." I had grown far too comfortable with such elementary surroundings. Flame. Lipstick. Ha! Such juvenile sentiments. It was also not so uncommon for me to daydream about infusing my intellect with the world of Blues and Greens and blowing everyone away. These fools had no...