A radically condensed history of postindustrial life

'When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.
The man who'd introduced them didn't much like either of them, though he acted as if he did, anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times.
One never knew, after all, now did one now did one now did one. ' - DFW

The building sweats as aftershave seeps in

Let the building sweat as the aftershave seeps in. They're not your bricks, not your glistening windows. You're not sweating, are you? Why would you be? It's not even your aftershave. You don't even wear aftershave. You're nothing like the building this is happening to. You're looking at the plant next to the building. You might own a plant like that or at least it's a plant you're familiar with. You've probably never been in the building even though you've passed it many times. You don't know why it sweats or even how or what it sweats. You can't smell the aftershave anymore, but you would have known that smell. I just know you would have.

Before the clock-tower

I sent the glob of tasteless chewing gum smeared with saliva on its way, towards the pavement. The guy walking near me immediately clocked the action, scraped the gum onto his hand, and smashed it against the board on the lamp-post. He didn't say a word, but I knew it grated with him. It was just a piece of gum and an over-reaction, but I felt bad, so I offered to buy him some breakfast. This he readily agreed to; not gum, but butterscotch coke and geranium choco-crunch. He sat there, sucking the coke through a twisted straw.

I took a look at him; intrepid hair and screaming eyes, quite neat, I could peer at his tattooed ears all day. I asked him why he'd come here, and he said that this place reeked of expectancy, and the clock-tower, it glowed blue, he could see it from the train. The clock-tower had drawn him towards it, bellowing the time. I was bored of monuments, so I told him he was a fool. He went silent, crunched his geranium snack, staring at me like I just didn't know.

I tried to deeply look, embrace his pupils, concentrating. He stood up, somehow tearful, and disappeared around the corner. With a crunch of a biscuit, he'd be back, I just knew it. I waited, slurped the drink that I'd bought for him earlier, then caroused more gum.

He rounded the corner, sat back down, calmer, but with tragic eyes.
"I know how to get into the tower," I told him, trying to please him, hoping for a chance.
"Yeah? And how is that?" he wanted to know.
"I know where the key is at. Good views soar from the top," I lied about the views.
"Let's go, let's go," he insisted.

I knew of many freaks before that had been fascinated with that clock-tower. Captures them on trains, drains the glow from them. I don't get affected, I'm safe. It doesn't change them when they go up the clock-tower though, they always want their faces to bask like they used to, fresh as uncurdled milk. It just doesn't happen.