Among other things our boss has us do: wash our hands after lunch.
He doesn’t care whether we wash our hands before lunch. He doesn’t want us to our meats and sauces on the equipment. Which is pristine and high tech and of course expensive.
We are expensive too, us employees. But he says no, “You’re just an expense. There’s a difference.”
He can only control so much of what we do, how we treat the machines. But he tries to monitor our activities with them. There are cameras in the office.

We don’t care. We do mostly what we want. But we do comply with washing our hands after lunch. But not because of the boss. But because we care about the machines.

I’m sitting here with a steaming bowl of pasta, patiently, quietly waiting for it to cool down long enough to eat it.

During this time I say a little prayer–Grace they call it. But I am interrupted. It’s the pasta. I notice a fly on it. I shoo it away.

I will still eat the pasta. But I will have to keep my eyes open as I give thanks. But then I realize I’ve had my eyes open all along.

Let your eyes fall, let your beard sprout. It will make a big difference for the party.

A woman walked up to you, asked “Have we met before?”

You know you haven’t met her before, you’re almost sure. But you don’t want to disappoint her so you’ll say, “Maybe…did you ever live Pennsylvania? Were you ever in the Peace Corps? Did you ever see Staten Island during the Moscow revolution?” Okay, this last part is totally made up, fueled by your self-consciousness, which is fueled by her stare.

Which accomplishes two things: it let’s her know you are trying. And it let’s you know you want to know her. You want to have met before. Because back then is always such a safer place to be than now, when you know nothing of her.

It is rare, he says as he rolls over in bed, pondering what to say to his wife after what he’s done, after what she’s said about what he’s done.
She doesn’t want a divorce. But she does want revenge.
“I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
“Anything?”
“You know it.”
“Then….take…out the garbage.”
He wails in pain at her request. He is gutted by it.

Mitch sat on his sandwich.
“Mitch!” Everyone yelled in horror at what he’d done.
“Sorry!” he said, bolting up from his chair, mayonnaise smearing the bottom of his distressed jeans and a sprig of lettuce dangling from his belt buckle.
To ease his embarrassment he reached for his Taragrance-flavored glass of water. Which never tasted as good and refreshing as it did now. After a few gulps, he felt ready for anything.
And shortly thereafter he fathered three children. The tonic water had worked better than expected.
“Mitch!” Everyone yelled in horror at what he’d done.
“Sorry,” Mitch said. But then he thought that this latest error was no worse than sitting on a sandwich.

She ran on a dime. But not very far. For a dollar she ran a mile. For five dollars, five miles. But for any longer distances, she would only settle for a quarter of a million dollars.

“Why the sudden jump in amount?” Reporters asked. For they’d been following this story since she started jogging in the park. Something about the way she looked, and jogged, captured the imagination of the media.

“Because,” she answered as they followed along her normal jogging path. “For any longer periods, what I would do with the money takes longer to ponder and therefore my jogging distance will be longer. For a dime, I’ll remember where I left those old love letters. For a dollar, I’ll think about those cheap snacks I served a dear old lover. For five dollars, I’ll imagine which restaurant I’ll end a long love affair. But for two hundred thousand, I have a future, with more possibilities. That takes longer to think about. It’s no longer about what I can buy or what I can find, but what I can create. And when that happens, it takes longer to think about.

“So why running? Why not just sit and think?” These two questions came from the only reporter who continued to follow her story. He was also the only report who could keep up with her quickening pace.

She did not answer him. She ran faster. The reporter could not keep up and fell behind.

Ahead, a portly man stood there, waving at her. She remembered him: she’d once waited on him at a deli she worked at, a couple of years ago.  She slowed as she ran past him. She noticed what appeared to be a cashier’s check flapping from one of his hands. “Good day,” she said and ran on.

“Wait!” he called out to her.

“I’m on mile four,” she said. “If you’re still here on my next go ’round, we’ll talk.”

“But I might not be,” he said, his voice barely carrying as he watched her round the bend.

“I might not be either,” she replied. A reply he could no longer here as she disappeared from his view.

She was speaking with her ex-husband when he asked her a questions, about one of their kids, the teenager, who seemed to be having some behavioral problems.

The wife wanted to tell her her ex that he was wrong–there was nothing wrong with their teenage son. But she couldn’t because she felt a sneeze coming on, a strong one. This sent her into a sort of limbo: a place between motherhood and madness.

Her ex-husband pronounced more to disagree with. While the momentum built quickly, heading into the sneeze.But still she could not defend their son against his father’s sudden and unfair accusations.

Finally she sneezed. It was so loud that her ex-husband screamed out in terror.

“Hello?” she said, wiping her nose.

The line went dead. Or he’d hung up.

So while she did not have the chance to defend their son, she at least had retaliated, in some way.

Through the bushes, the shape appeared to disappear. It was a man, I was almost sure of it. I crashed through the branches, hot on the trail but found only a kitten in my path. As confused as I was, I picked it up, took him home, fed it,  loved it, and let it cuddle next to me until morning.
By then it began to rain and it seemed silly to return to the woods. I wondered if the man was still out there. Soaked? Without human warmth?

And no one else’s. No one else is allowed to call my baby, “Baby.”
If they do I will sock them in the face. Well, maybe not that. But I will give them a mean look which will act as loud as a shout through a crowded room, which will make everyone hold their breath.

My baby is crying now. Because I have been angry, jealous, possessive. I can’t comfort my baby because the memory of my outburst is too soon. Babies have short term memories. They stop crying.  If only I could stop too.

You sure can. You have my support. Go ahead. You are right, sure. Exactly. Yep. Do it. I know. Of course. I get it, totally. You got it. I see. Sure. I know, I know.