Another day, this one is a Wednesday. As I hoped today would be alright, it was so far, so good this morning. I was in the office a half hour early. I knew Yancy was going to arrive, and I certainly did not want to arrive and see him sitting on the couch doing those Yancy-type things that only Yancy could do. I went to bed at around 10:30 last night and that was a deciding factor.
And it was decided by Morpheus that I should wake up a bit earlier than usual. I looked at the alarm clock, saw it was 5:10 AM, and said, ‘I’ll take it’ and fell back asleep for another 45 minutes. Then another 10 minutes, and then I decided that it was time to get out of bed.
Things were in such a fraught state for me yesterday at work and I had words of encouragement from Bill and Mike’s ear. I need to remember Mike’s employment situation and how I would feel when I was out of work and listened to various employed friends complain about their jobs. I just sent him a post about jobs out in the Meadowlands at the American Dream whatchamacallit.
He is going to have to find a job soon. I hope he knows this. It was not an easy time for Mike last time, last summer. And that is why I am hesitant to assist this time. As Bill (& Mike) will profess, the Gemini thing, you never know which twin you’re going to get. Most of the time lately it’s been the good twin, but man, that bad twin is just a pain in the tuchis to deal with and I would rather not.
Bill is on the road, from the Bronx to Pennsylvania. Right now, Cornershop is playing a song, ‘Good to be on the Road Back Home Again’. They played Maxwell’s back in the day. I missed it. Julio was working that night and let me know I would have enjoyed seeing Cornershop. C’est La Vie.
Done with coffee for the day. Trying to figure out what to have for lunch. Should I have anything? Should I have salad today? I tried yesterday and that didn’t work out too well. And there is more than one salad bar in the area, anyhow.
Salad it is. It is supposed to be ready in a little over an hour. If you want to eat healthy, you will pay for it, one way or another. This is the lesson that is learned. Like I wrote yesterday the deli at 11 Park Place, Elim Deli, was very good despite the clientele of my coworkers who were less than human. I had lunch from there 4 out of 5 days a week. I would more than likely be getting my lunch from them again today, then go out fo a cigar walk an hour or so later. Today it is too cold for that, foolish April 8, 2026. When the weather warms up, that is what my spring and summer lunches will look like.
Lodi Vinny, 40 years
I was thinking of Vinny, who lived on Church Street in Lodi. He was a good kid, a few years younger than me. I didn’t know him from Lodi. We met when we both worked for HBJ. He was an assistant some days when I was driving into Manhattan.
He had a great body and was strong enough to pick me up and throw me into the piles of bagged styrofoam peanuts. I loved it when he did that. We never hung out, but one particular time, after the HBJ holiday party, we all piled into my car and went to the Soap Factory Disco in Leonia.
I was in a new wave look, blazer, skinny tie, black trousers and with that look I was turned away at the door. I was all set to just go home and offered Vinny a ride but he decided to walk from Leonia to Lodi which was a bit of a hike for a few miles on Route 46.
I’m sure he made it home safely, though I don’t think I saw much of Vinny after that. I hope he’s doing well.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a David Sedaris essy
It was a Wednesday, a day that typically feels like the long, carpeted hallway of the week—endless, beige, and smelling faintly of someone else’s microwave popcorn.
I had managed to drag myself into the office a full thirty minutes early, mostly because I lived in mortal dread of Yancy. To arrive after Yancy is to find him already established on the couch, performing those specific, inscrutable Yancy-isms that only he can master—things like sighing at his cuticles or vibrating with a low-frequency energy that makes my teeth ache.
My early arrival was a gift from Morpheus, or perhaps a clerical error in the department of sleep. I woke at 5:10 AM, stared at the digital glow of the clock, and whispered, “I’ll take it,” as if I were negotiating the price of a slightly bruised melon. I fell back into a feverish slumber for forty-five minutes, then another ten, before finally accepting that the day had, in fact, begun.
Work lately has been what one might call “fraught,” which is a professional way of saying I’ve spent most of my time vibrating with anxiety. I’ve been leaning on Bill and Mike for encouragement, though I have to remind myself to be careful with Mike. He’s currently between “opportunities,” and there is nothing quite so obnoxious as a person with a paycheck complaining about their desk to someone who would happily trade their left kidney for a stable cubicle. I sent him a listing for a job at the American Dream mall out in the Meadowlands—a name that feels less like a shopping center and more like a threat.
The truth is, Mike needs a win. His last stint of unemployment was a grim affair, and I’m hesitant to jump back into the fray of his drama. As Bill and Mike will tell you, Mike is a Gemini, which means you never quite know which version of Mike is going to answer the phone. Lately, it’s been the “Good Twin”—the one who remembers birthdays and uses a coaster. But that “Bad Twin”? He’s a real pain in the tuchis. He’s the one who wants to burn the bridge while he’s still standing on it.
Currently, Bill is somewhere on the road between the Bronx and Pennsylvania, and I am sitting here listening to Cornershop. The song is “Good to be on the Road Back Home Again,” which reminds me of the time they played Maxwell’s. I missed it, of course. My friend Julio worked there that night and told me I would have loved it, a piece of information that serves no purpose other than to make me feel like I’ve failed at being cool. *C’est la vie.*
I’ve finished my coffee, which means the productive portion of my day is officially over. Now comes the agonizing ritual of the Lunch Decision. Yesterday I attempted a salad, an experiment that ended in profound disappointment. There are multiple salad bars in the area, all of them competing to see who can charge the most for a bowl of wilted arugula.
I’ve decided to try again. If you want to be healthy, you must pay for it—usually in fifteen-dollar increments. It’s a penance. Back in the day, I used to frequent Elim Deli on Park Place. The food was excellent, even if my coworkers there were essentially sub-human—the kind of people who talk on speakerphone in the bathroom. I’d grab lunch and take a “cigar walk,” a ritual that feels very mid-century mogul, but today is April 8th and the weather is acting like a petulant child. It’s too cold for cigars. I’ll have to wait for the actual spring to resume my delusions of grandeur.
Thinking of the deli made me think of Vinny.
Vinny lived on Church Street in Lodi back in the eighties. He was younger than me, a sweet kid I met when we both worked for HBJ. He was an assistant who sometimes rode into Manhattan with me. Vinny had the kind of physique that suggested he spent his free time wrestling boulders, and he used to express his affection by picking me up and hosing me into piles of bagged Styrofoam peanuts. I loved it. It was the closest I’ve ever come to being a piece of fragile glassware.
We never really hung out outside of work, except for the night of the HBJ holiday party. We all piled into my car and drove to the Soap Factory Disco in Leonia. I was committed to a very specific “New Wave” look: a blazer, a skinny tie, and black trousers that were probably tight enough to cut off my circulation.
The bouncer took one look at my skinny tie and turned me away at the door. I was humiliated—rejected by a disco in Leonia—and told Vinny I was just going to go home. I offered him a ride, but he declined. He decided to walk from Leonia to Lodi instead. It’s a several-mile hike along Route 46, a stretch of road designed for internal combustion engines, not sentimental assistants.
I assume he made it home. I didn’t see much of him after that. I hope he’s doing well, somewhere far away from Route 46, hopefully still picking people up and throwing them into things. It’s a gift, really.
I’ll ask for my salad dressing on the side. One must have standards.
When I want to have a humorous take, I defer to David Sedaris. If you can suggest other humorists, let me know. But then again, you’re not reading this, are you?