Higher Ground

Back to work today, another Monday, but with the beach in my blood. It really put me to sleep last night and carried me through the day. It was an ok day. Bill left early, before I even woke up. I stumbled about the apartment, making coffee, getting into the shower. Not hustling into the office on Friday gave me a good sense of timing which I applied today. It was fairly easy going on the streets, a sense of calmness in my mind carried over from Monmouth Beach. Plantain man was behind the register in shorts that were oh so tight in the crotch area. He’s all smiles when he sees me though we don’t say too much. Such body language!

The Path was crowded but I was fortunate to be in an air conditioned car though the more it filled the less air conditioning I could feel. The sun was beaming already and it was only a little after 8:00. I walked on the shady side of the street. Shady, in most every sense of the word. Besides the buildings blocking direct sunlight, the sidewalk was populated with various guys setting up shop selling whatever used magazines, or books or porn, some asleep on top of tarps on top of whatever it was they were selling.

I walked down Downing Street rather than Carmine Street. A lot quieter and shadier, due to the trees lining the street. Some people walking their dogs and some going to work. I walked into the lobby of the building and chatted briefly with Harold the security guy. He and I get along pretty well. Nice guy. I doubt if anyone else from my office even knows his name. I’d be surprised if they did.

I rode the elevator with Larry Whitehead, the CEO of McMann and Tate. He’s Mr. California Cool. He’s married to a statuesque Amazon and just came back from Fire Island for the weekend. We chatted briefly about what all over the world strangers talk about, the weather. I walked around the office and didn’t even turn on the computer when one of the ditzes in the office says she broke the coffee machine. Seems she tried to turn it on and actually make coffee herself which was admirable yet foolish since she didn’t know what she was doing. And to prove a point, I moved the full coffee pot and burned my finger. My middle finger. Most apt. At various times throughout the day I was legitimately giving people the finger.

The nail is in the coffin regarding a return to Wanker Banker, not that I actually believed it was going to happen. It would’ve been too odd. Helen Devilakos, quite possibly the last time I ever write that stubby name, put the kibosh on it. I found out when I called up to find out what happened to my missing transit check funds. Though the money is mine, I paid into it, the Transit Check money went back to Wanker Banker after my benefits with them lapsed. It’s only thirty five dollars, but it was MY thirty five dollars. A pox on the house of Devilakos! May her sausage fingers cramp when she’s trying to adjust the water temperature on her shower stall.

I simply can’t curse someone like I used to.

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