It is another beautiful summer morning in August 2026. At the fruit stand once again a hobgoblin roams the hallways looking for trouble and changing things on a whim. Perhaps it’s more to get this fruit stand in line with the other food stand. I don’t know- I am not told any information. I just sit and watch things unfold before my eyes.
Yesterday on social media I spent way too much time arguing with some white trash from Texas- Trash Panda he calls himself. The Panda trash moaned about how he wanted to join a black cigar smokers group but they would not let him. They claimed it was because he was white but more often than not if you looked at his profile on social media he was maga maga maga and nobody wants to have anything to do with people like that anyhow.
Once again I dictate these notes into my phone since a way of a paranoia watches over my consciousness and has affected my ability to actually do things on the computer in front of me. So this is a way to get the words in and not interfere with my work which is quite slow to begin with anyhow and then again there’s the hobgoblin roaming the hallways.
Mike’s beloved, Wade is expected today, coming in on Tuesday leaving Saturday morning. Saturday I am planning on going to Garfield to see Elaine which should be okay I suppose.
It was a call from Annemarie a week or so ago thinking that Elaine desperately needs my help. And when I asked Elaine if she desperately needs my help she said no but she wouldn’t mind a visit so that is the plan for Saturday.
I am waiting to hear from somebody who made a request for tomorrow and I processed the request as much as I can. I am just waiting to hear what time their guest is expected and they responded it’ll be tomorrow even though I asked them what hour they are expecting their guest and they merely said August 26th 2026.
Bill is going away tomorrow and coming back on Sunday which should be fine, he has not been working that much lately. I don’t know if it’s because there’s not enough work to go around or perhaps they got something against my man, Bill.
Everyone’s summer is winding down towards the Labor Day weekend. Of course summer doesn’t end for another week or so after Labor Day in fact I am taking the 11th and 14th off of September. I thought about taking today off since Bill is going away tomorrow but obviously that did not happen since I am sitting at a desk in the fruit stand dictating words into my phone to be edited to be posted later on in the day.
This has been remarkably easy peasy, I am almost at the quota of 500 words. The Beatles are playing Lady Madonna right now not the official release but one of the outtakes.
I heard from the agency today. My counselor contacvted me. Apparently, Yancy’s boss did not like a joke that I made and went to the agency. From now on, no more humor. Can I maintain a no nonsense approach? It remains to be seen since I found out I’m working at the big fruit stand tomorrow.
I took the PATH train home only to realize halfway there that I left my notebooks with my information for the major fruit stand. I am back at the fruit stand just for a minute to get my notebooks. In and out for a minute. Spirit dwindling
Fare thee well, Dolly Pardon
Samuel Beckett Essay via Google Gemini
August. Another morning. The sun, presumably.
Here at the stand, the fruit stand, a phantom moves through the corridors. A hobgoblin. It alters things. Why? To align this void with that other void, the second stand. I am not informed. I sit. I observe the unfolding. Nothing unfolds, yet it passes.
Yesterday, the screen. Words exchanged with a phantom named Trash Panda. A man from Texas, weeping into the digital ether because he was refused entry to a brotherhood of smoke. He spoke of exclusion; the profile spoke of slogans, repeated until empty. No matter. We speak to wallow.
I speak into the small machine now. The terminal before me inspires a quiet dread, a paralysis. So the voice speaks, the machine records, the work—slow, always slow—creeps on. And the hobgoblin continues to walk.
Arrivals and departures. Wade arrives today, Tuesday. He leaves Saturday. On Saturday, I go to Garfield. To Elaine. Annemarie called. *She needs help,* she said. *Desperate help.* I asked Elaine. *Do you need help?* *No,* she said. *A visit, perhaps.* So I go. One moves because one must move.
A request remains unanswered. I asked for an hour: *When does the guest arrive?* The reply came: *August 26th.* A date, but no time. Time does not exist in hours here, only in dates that mean nothing.
Bill leaves tomorrow. Returns Sunday. He works little now. Lack of labor, or lack of favor? Unknown. The summer ends, they say. They look toward a Monday in September as if it were a boundary. I take days off later. Mid-September. I might have stayed away today, but here I am, sitting at the desk, speaking to the device.
Five hundred words near. An outtake plays. The Beatles, repeating a song that was never quite finished.
The agency called. A joke was made. Yancy’s superior did not laugh. The decree has descended: *No more humor.* A no-nonsense existence. Is it possible? Tomorrow, the larger fruit stand awaits.
I took the train. The PATH train. Halfway across the dark, I remembered: the notebooks. Left behind. The notebooks for tomorrow’s stand. I returned. I am here again, briefly. In, out.
The spirit, dwindling. Must go on. Can’t go on. Will go on.
And Fran Lebowitz’ essay from GG
It is August, a month engineered solely for the purpose of demonstrating that heat and human presence are a combination best avoided. Outside, it is technically summer, though the word “beautiful” belongs exclusively to people who do not have to walk through Midtown to experience it.
I am currently sitting in an office—a venue I refer to as the fruit stand, largely because it possesses all the organizational logic of an unattended produce cart. A local hobgoblin is currently wandering the corridors, altering policy on a whim. The goal, I am told by no one, is to align this particular disaster with another, larger disaster down the block. I am informed of nothing. I merely sit, static, watching the management execute maneuvers that would embarrass a child playing with wooden blocks.
Naturally, I spent yesterday engaging in the modern substitute for intellectual life: arguing with a man from Texas who calls himself “Trash Panda.” He was outraged to find himself excluded from a Black cigar club. He attributed this to racial bias; a cursory glance at his public profile revealed it was due to his personality, which was entirely comprised of political sloganeering. No one wants to smoke a cigar with someone who converts every breath into a rally speech. It ruins the draw.
I am dictating this because operating a computer now fills me with a precise, modern paranoia. It is vastly safer to speak into a telephone, even if doing so makes me look like someone who is lost.
Life proceeds in minor inconveniences. A colleague’s partner arrives today; another colleague, Bill, departs tomorrow. Whether Bill’s light schedule is due to a lack of work or a sudden corporate vendetta remains unclear. Meanwhile, I am expected in Garfield on Saturday to visit Elaine. Annemarie called a week ago to report that Elaine was in desperate need of assistance. When I asked Elaine directly if she was in desperate need of assistance, she said no, but that a visit would be tolerable. This is the closest anyone in my circle comes to enthusiasm.
I spent forty minutes attempting to extract a specific arrival time from a client for tomorrow’s visit. I asked for an hour. They replied, with great efficiency, “August 26th.”
People speak of summer winding down as though Labor Day were an iron curtain. Labor Day is a Monday; the sun does not consult the calendar. I intend to take two days off in mid-September, assuming the management survives its own initiatives.
To top the afternoon off, the agency called. A counselor informed me that a client’s supervisor took offense at a joke I made. The directive is clear: no more humor. Whether I am capable of maintaining a completely serious demeanor while stationed at the main fruit stand tomorrow remains an open question. I suspect the answer is no.
I made it halfway home on the PATH train before realizing I had left my notebooks behind—the very notebooks required for tomorrow’s execution of duty. I am now back at my desk, retrieving them in a state of absolute, unvarnished exhaustion. In, out, one minute. Spirit entirely depleted.