I left the fruit stand on Friday afternoon, feeling good. A natural high. It brought mehome and when ZBill opened the door I surprised him with a hug. I was genuinely feeling good and I took note of it and shared it with Bill.
Mike was supposed to come over but said he had a call from PSE&G asking him to be available for a meter reading on Saturday morning. So he was not coming over on Friday. That was fine, no big loss. Bill and I watched the Hannah Waddingham and Olivia Spencer show Ride or Die. They’re best friends, and Olivia did not know that Hannah was an assassin.
It’s funny and has some good lines. One of the students from the History Boys plays Olivia Spencer’s husband, who is a cad. One episode was all we watched, figuring we’d watch the others if & when Mike arrived. The usual routine happened, Bill going to bed and me joining him about 30 minutes later.
Saturday was a gorgeous day, Bill and I made the trip to the supermarket, Mike’s PSE&G appointment was pushed back. It all seemed rather sketchy. I figured Mike had a play date since PSE&G doesn’t usually play those scheduling games, at least not with me. He showed up later in the afternoon.
The St. Ann’s feast was going on, and the plan was to go to that on Saturday evening. I was hesitant but relented since Mike wanted to experience it and Bill and I last went there around 22 years ago. Around 7 PM we headed out. And it was as I expected. Not much fun, people were walking in baby steps since it was so crowded.
Mike and Bill rolled the dice and got sausage sandwiches. I love the smell of sausage but not much of a fan of how they taste. I opted for some pizza from across the street from our flat. We’ve been watching Ted Lasso again, for a recharge of positivity as well as the anticipation for the return of the show.
Bill was off to bed early since he was getting up early in the morning. Bill packed up his gear, and Mike helped bring it down to the first floor so as not to disturb the neighbors at 4 AM. Then it was Mike and me and I was soon horizontal next to Bill as Mike stayed up and made his videos.
I did the bike ride, 12.88 miles. It was a pleasant ride, I complimented a few people as I pedalled past. I took the usual photos and after my break, was feeling so good, riding without my hands on the handlebar. Just staring into space, hands free and I hit a pothole which ended that reverie. Nothing happened and I quickly gathered my wits.
The past week or so, there have been a few videos on social media, mainly men who have jumped a few steps on a staircase, then they wind up dead. It’s not as ghastly as it sounds, they’re generally pretty funny, if not silly. It’s so ingrained in my consciousness that I actually turned my head to make sure I was not laying in the street next to that unforeseen pothole I had just rode into…
Spoiler alert- I am still alive.
I was feeling good throughout the weekend, going to work was not a bad thing. I got to work at my usual early time and set about starting my day. There were some fruit stand requests from over the weekend and I took care of one of them. I read the request as it happening tomorrow, Tuesday and when I sent it out, I saw it was actually for Thursday.
This is what upsets Yancy as well as upsetting me. I was hasty and immediately took measures to correct the date for the request, all within a minute but that is all it takes: one minute that didn’t have to be if only I was not so hasty. And it was a dumb mistake that I regretfully made.
After that, all was quiet at the fruit stand. I did not have my lunchtime cigar with me and felt it was just as well since I may have been smoking too much. But the addict crept forth, and I walked to get a cigar that would have been cheaper in Hoboken.
As I sat and puffed away, I started getting anxious and saw sadness on the horizon, thinking about the mistake I had made earlier. I did some breathing exercises that I do every night. They’re also mentioned in Ted Lasso so I felt somewhat validated. The cigar was good; too good to rush through, and it was on the strong end of the scale.
I was soon upstairs at the fruit stand taking care of what needed to be done.
Google Gemini rewrite as a James Thurber essay
Here is a rewrite of your weekend narrative in the distinctive, wry style of James Thurber (often known as James, though the dry observational rhythm fits your “William Thurber” persona perfectly).
It captures the gentle domestic absurdities, subtle marital dynamics, mild urban anxieties, and the quiet triumph over everyday catastrophe.
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### The Secret Life of a Fruit Stand Man
I left the fruit stand on Friday afternoon in a state of unnatural euphoria. It was a natural high, though in my line of work, natural highs are often viewed with the same quiet suspicion one reserves for unexploded ordnance. I brought this alarming buoyancy home with me and immediately subjected Bill to a sudden, unprovoked hug as soon as he opened the door. Bill survived the embrace, and I took careful mental inventory of my good mood, sharing the prognosis with him in detail so he would know what to expect.
Our friend Mike was scheduled to appear, but he called to report that the Public Service Enterprise and Gas Company had summoned him for a meter reading on Saturday morning. This struck me as a flimsy pretext. PSE&G rarely displays such romantic agility with its scheduling, at least not in my experience, and I privately concluded that Mike had arranged a play date of his own. His absence on Friday was no great tragedy. Bill and I settled in to watch a television program called *Ride or Die*, featuring Miss Hannah Waddingham and Miss Olivia Colman (or perhaps Ms. Spencer, though the distinction blurred as the evening wore on). The plot involved two best friends, one of whom was an assassin—a detail her companion had inexplicably managed to overlook for several years. A alumnus from *The History Boys* played the husband, a cad of the first water. We limited ourselves to a single episode, preserving the rest for Mike’s hypothetical arrival, after which Bill retired to bed and I followed him some thirty minutes later in accordance with long-established domestic protocol.
Saturday dawned with absurd perfection. Bill and I made our pilgrimage to the supermarket while Mike’s appointment with the gas company was allegedly postponed once more. Mike himself materialized in the late afternoon, looking entirely unbothered by utility company bureaucracy.
The St. Ann’s feast was underway, and Mike expressed a desire to experience it. Bill and I had last attended this festival roughly twenty-two years ago, a span of time sufficient to wipe away the sharper memories of why we had stopped going. I relented around seven o’clock, and we plunged into the throng. It was precisely as I had feared: thousands of citizens moving at the deliberate pace of tranquilized box turtles. Mike and Bill rashly ordered sausage sandwiches from a street vendor. I have always admired the smell of sausage—it is one of the great aromas of Western civilization—but I find the actual taste to be a bitter letdown. I opted instead for a slice of pizza from the establishment directly opposite our flat. Later, we sought refuge in *Ted Lasso*, watching it again to recharge our moral batteries and prepare ourselves for the show’s eventual return.
Bill had to rise before the dawn, so he retired early after packing his gear. Mike helped him transport his luggage down to the ground floor, exercising the kind of covert silence usually reserved for jewel thieves so as not to rouse the neighbors at four in the morning. Once Bill had departed, I assumed a horizontal position in bed while Mike remained awake in the front room, quietly manufacturing his internet videos.
By Sunday, I was out on my bicycle, covering precisely 13.88 miles. It was a splendid ride. I hurled cheerful compliments at passersby as I pedaled past them. Having reached a state of transcendent tranquility, I took a rest break, remounted, and decided to ride with no hands on the handlebars, staring mindlessly into the ether like a man who has completely forgotten the laws of physics. At that exact moment, I struck a pothole.
The bike shuddered, my wits scattered, but I somehow remained upright. Lately, social media has been flooded with short videos depicting gentlemen who leap up a flight of stairs, miss a step, and instantly collapse, appearing to have perished on the spot. These films are meant to be lighthearted, but they have taken a dark hold of my subconscious. I found myself frantically turning my head to make sure I wasn’t, in fact, lying dead in the asphalt beside the pothole, a casualty of my own hubris. (Spoiler alert: I survived.)
Monday morning found me back at the fruit stand, still remarkably unbothered by the cosmic machinery of life. I arrived early, as is my habit, and set about clearing the weekend’s backlogged requests. One request seemed to require attention for Tuesday. I dispatched the paperwork post-haste, only to discover a second later that the date requested was actually Thursday.
This is precisely the sort of hasty error that upsets Yancy, and, truth be told, it deeply upsets me. I corrected the blunder within sixty seconds, but the damage to my pride was done. It was a foolish, unnecessary mistake born of speed rather than thought, and it hung over me like a small, personal storm cloud.
By lunchtime, the quiet settled in. I had deliberately left my cigar at home, harboring a vague, noble ambition to cut back on my smoking. But the addict inside me, who is a persistent fellow, staged a brief coup. I walked several blocks to purchase a cigar that I knew for a fact would have been considerably cheaper back in Hoboken.
As I sat outdoors puffing away, a wave of familiar anxiety washed over me. Sadness loomed on the horizon as I replayed my morning error in agonizing detail. To combat the gloom, I resorted to a series of deep-breathing exercises that I practice every night—exercises recently validated by an episode of *Ted Lasso*, which gave the whole performance a nice touch of prestige. The cigar was remarkably good, entirely too strong to rush, and so I took my time.
Properly oxygenated and mildly nicotine-poisoned, I climbed the stairs back to the fruit stand to finish what needed to be done.
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