The big fruit stand. It has been a busy morning, working alongside Violeta. She’s new and it’s our first time working together. And we’re getting along just fine, thank you very much. It’s quiet at the moment. Janis is off doing Janis things, Kimberly on a different floor holding it down, Yancy has actually been at his desk which is a rare occurrence.
It’s quite brazen of me to be writing this at the desk out in the open but there’s not much at the moment, just sitting and waiting for the requests to come in. Generally afternoons are a bit of a lull, people don’t submit their wants and needs until after 4:30 PM, just when we have our eye on the door and the other eye on the clock.
Today was a free lunch day as well much to my surprise. In an attempt to save some money, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, true comfort food and relatively healthy. I say that since my sister makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the beach and my sister eats healthier than me, so my trust in her is implicit.
I had two servings of Mexican food, make your own taco. Only my taco making skills are subpar so I ate a bowl of taco ingredients but not necessarily a taco.
Violeta is pleasant and I’ve been taking charge of the music and trying to please her ear and since I do not know what exactly what she likes, I have been playing R&B stuff and some soul. No complaints that I have heard. I played Me’Shell Ndegeocello and now I am playing Dusty in Memphis by Dusty Springfield. I got my copy of Dusty in Memphis from the one & only Arif Mardin. A true honor indeed.
After I had my ersatz Mexican taco I went out for a smoke, leaving Violeta with my phone number to call should she get overwhelmed. As I was outside the fruit stand, I saw some promotional thing going on sponsored by Nike.
They were giving out Philadelphia Cheese Steaks across the street from where the New York Knicks play. I suppose it was a subtle dig at the Knicks. Within minutes a line of about 50 peoplequeued up to get a free cheese steak. Having eaten my own free lunch I stepped aside with my little cigar so as not to disturb those discerning palates.
And now all is quiet. I spoke with Bill who will be motoring the next couple of days, then I spoke to Mike who told me about a dream he had where Bill and I won the lottery, enough that we were able to set Mike up with a cozy apartment by Exchange Place in Jersey City, which is where he wanted to live.
Bill and I bought a place on 11th Street in Hoboken while maintaining our current place for storage. I guess we won a lot of money in the dream. I hope it was a correct prediction, though having written that…
Google Gemini rewrite
The Big Fruit Stand—a name that suggests a cornucopia of agricultural delights but serves primarily as the backdrop for my ongoing struggle with the existential dread of the nine-to-five. It’s been a morning of frantic activity, most of it involving me trying to look busy while secretly wondering if my soul is slowly leaking out of my sensible loafers.
I am working alongside Violeta. She’s new, vibrant, and possesses an alarming amount of optimism. We are getting along famously, which is to say I haven’t yet burdened her with my views on the inherent meaninglessness of the universe or my chronic sinus issues.
The office is currently gripped by a peculiar stillness. Janis is off performing those inscrutable rituals known only as “Janis things.” Kimberly is on a different floor, presumably holding back the forces of chaos, and Yancy—in a move that defies the laws of probability—is actually at his desk. I’m writing this out in the open, a brazen act of rebellion that ranks somewhere between Kafka’s late-night diary entries and a teenager hiding a comic book inside a hymnal.
The afternoon lull has settled in. In this industry, people don’t realize they have “wants” or “needs” until exactly 4:30 PM. It’s a psychological phenomenon; the closer a worker gets to the exit, the more the client feels a biological imperative to demand a spreadsheet. We sit here, one eye on the door, the other on the clock, like characters in a Beckett play, though with better benefits.
Today, fate—or perhaps the corporate catering budget—intervened with a free lunch. Naturally, I had already prepared a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a fit of fiscal responsibility. I consider PB&J the ultimate comfort food, a culinary security blanket. My sister eats them at the beach, and since she adheres to a diet that makes a Benedictine monk look like Diamond Jim Brady, my trust in the sandwich’s health benefits is implicit.
However, faced with a “Make Your Own Taco” bar, my willpower vanished. I am a man of many failures, but my inability to architect a taco is perhaps my most visible. I lack the structural integrity required for tortilla management. What began as a bold vision of a carnitas wrap ended as a “taco bowl”—a euphemism for a heap of beans and despair.
To compensate for my culinary clumsiness, I’ve taken charge of the music. I’ve been playing R&B and soul, hoping to find the frequency of Violeta’s approval. I started with Me’Shell Ndegeocello and transitioned to *Dusty in Memphis*. I own a copy given to me by Arif Mardin himself—a man who understood rhythm better than I understand my own checking account.
After my ersatz Mexican feast, I retreated outside for a cigar, leaving Violeta my phone number in case the fruit stand became a scene of Wagnerian proportions. Across from the Knicks’ arena, Nike was staging a promotional event: free Philadelphia cheesesteaks. A subtle dig at our local athletes, no doubt. Fifty people queued up instantly, their “discerning palates” lured by the siren song of processed cheese. I stood aside, a lone figure with a cigar, watching the masses trade their dignity for thinly sliced ribeye.
Now, silence. I spoke with Bill, who is “motoring” for the next few days—a term that makes him sound like a character in a 1920s travelogue. Then Mike shared a dream. In it, Bill and I won a lottery so vast we bought Mike a cozy apartment in Jersey City. Bill and I took a place on 11th Street in Hoboken while keeping our current apartment strictly for storage.
It was a beautiful, soaring vision of upward mobility. A prophetic dream, I hope. Although knowing my luck, if I ever did win the lottery, the government would immediately tax joy, and I’d end up owing the IRS three more years of taco bowls.