It’s Friday, September 26th, I am in the office, and everything is just as stupid as it’s been. I woke up with a frantic Bill alerting me that the shower, which he basically messed up on my birthday, is now completely broken. Of course, it’s not his fault it was like that when I got here, which is what he said, when i fell apart, or when he initially broke the shower head. He claims it’s better it’s not better.
it floods the bathroom which is fine for him since he wasn’t around to have to dry it up and pick it up and I did my best and still I had to go to work so I don’t know what it’s going to be like when I get home but on the way home I have to stop off and get a new shower head I was going to get a water pic like we used to have but I think I’m just going to go for the most basic banal.
I just treated myself to three overpriced cookies, but they’re so good that they’re worth being overpriced. It’s my reward and I’m not going to share it. I’ll probably forgo lunch and buy a shower head after work.
I am now walking back to the fruit stand that I attend to daily from another fruit stand down the road. A nice fruit stand it was smaller than where I am, and I’ll be filling in when David Thomas, the guy at the front desk will be out and there’s somebody rings the bell I’ll be able to answer that ringing bell on the device that they give me an iPhone or an iPad or a Ouija board whatever device is up to them.
I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to do after work, go to Home Depot in Jersey City and pick up a shower head and install it tonight, or should I go to the horrible hardware store in town? Please, decisions are foremost on my mind, and I still have to get back to my office in about 15 minutes for a meeting on camera with people from the West Coast.
I got to the meeting a little bit late, and it was not the end of the world. I chimed in when needed, said my peace, and then Marcus showed up at my desk. I went off camera, muted my mic, and listened to Marcus tell me his tale of woe. It’s interesting with Marcus, he seems to be so indifferent and somewhat cold, and then moments like this happen, and I’m the only person that he seems to he able to trust.
He’s a good man he takes him a while for him to warm up every day, so I was able to listen, and that’s all I needed to do was listen.
Mike, on the other hand, is inquiring as to whether or not I have a date tonight, when my date is Home Depot and installing a shower head once I get back to my crib. That means I’ll probably have to take the path to Newport, walk over to Home Depot, buy a shower head, and then walk home from there. I am definitely gathering a lot of steps today.
It’s quite a warm September 26th. When I got back from the other location fruit stand, I had to change my undershirt once again, as it was sweaty and I probably looked a sight at those other people at the fruit stand, overweight, breathing heavy sweating profusely. I feel like the guy in that Sherlock episode, A Scandal in Belgravia, who discovered the hiker hit by a boomerang.
Bill is on the road somewhere, and I am sitting here in my spot smoking a normal-size cigar, not a mini, not a small, and I’m going to take my time and enjoy it today, looking at people walking by and wondering all about them. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by what I see and who I see.
My sister has returned home from Europe with her husband and was told by my brother of his situation. I am having lunch with my sister-in-law tomorrow, and that will probably be the topic of discussion, so who knows?
And I just got off the phone with Mike, who’s talking about his beloved and the problems that his beloved is having with a certain social media group. It seems the haters have found him and are complaining about the sheer volume of posts that he’s making.
I’m on the street enjoying my cigar, and there’s a lot of background noise and Mike is just talking, talking, talking, and I had to take another call from Bill, so I had to cut the call short.
It seems there is a weight on my shoulders, but that weight is not necessarily mine; it seems to be other people’s, Marcus, Mike, even Bill. I mean, I do have my own stress, and as pleasant as that meeting at the other food stand was, there was some stress involved because a lot of things are being thrown at me, and I’m just yessing them to death.
Time’s running out, he’s not happy with the cost. There’d be no doubt only he’s forgotten much more than he’s lost.
Richie the cigar guy. I was sitting and smoking, and a guy walking by smoking a cigar I waved to him, he came down and sat, and we talked about many things: art, cigars, photography, things like that. It was pleasant at my lunch hour ended, so I had to cut it short.
Before it was cut short, though he was asking me about this here blog. I don’t remember how it came up, but I mentioned that I write and how you had written from 2005 to 2013, and then I stopped due to losing a job or two from what I’ve written, despite the changing of the names and changing of the guard.
But in August of 2024, I restarted it, but didn’t tell anybody. He didn’t understand the whole thinking behind that, that I’m not trying to make money from this, that if people read it, fine, if they don’t read it, that’s fine too, I’m doing it for myself. Is it contrarian? I’m not sure, but here I am.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Mark Twain piece
## Of Showers and Sorrows: A Friday Affidavit
Here is Friday, September the twenty-sixth, and I am marooned in this here office, where the witless chatter and the clock’s slow murder continue their dismal trade. Everything, I tell you, is **just as stupid as it’s been**, which is to say, stupider than God Himself could have imagined.
The day commenced with a domestic catastrophe, the source of which was, naturally, **Bill**. The man, who has a knack for wrecking things with the innocence of a farm pig in a china shop, had alerted me that the shower—a wretched thing he’d fiddled with back on my birthday—was **completely broken**. “It was like that when I got here,” he’d chirped, which is the universal declaration of scoundrels and husbands who wish to absolve themselves of guilt. He claims it’s *better* now. If flooding the bathroom to the point of turning it into a small, unsought-after swamp is “better,” then I confess I know nothing of human progress. He, of course, is now on the road, leaving me to mop up the deluge and face the long, grim journey for a replacement. I shall forgo the high-falutin’ **Water Pik** and settle for the **most basic, banal** contraption available. When life forces you to seek the least of evils, you take it.
My reward for this morning’s plumbing grief was **three overpriced cookies**. Let a man have his small, delicious vices, I say. They are excellent, and I shall not share a crumb. I’ll make them my lunch and put the necessary funds toward the aforementioned banality of a shower head.
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## The West Coast and the Weight of Others
Presently, I was forced to tramp back to my own **fruit stand**—that’s the current, imbecilic term for a man’s working desk—from another, smaller fruit establishment. I am to be a fill-in man there, to answer the ringing of some devilish device, be it an **iPhone or an iPad or a Ouija board**. The gadgets change, but the tiresome labor remains.
The grand question consuming my soul was whether to trek to the **Home Depot in Jersey City**—a pilgrimage for plumbing—or surrender to the local, **horrible hardware store**. Such are the weighty decisions that now occupy the American mind, eclipsing philosophy and war. All this, mind you, with a confounded **camera meeting with the West Coast** looming.
I was late. It was not the end of the Republic. I said my paltry piece, and then **Marcus** sidled up to my desk. I cut off the video, hushed the mic, and listened to his **tale of woe**. Marcus is a curious fish; seems cold as a January night until a private tribulation strikes, and then, *presto!*, I become the one confessor he can stomach. I listened, for listening is the cheapest labor a man can offer, and sometimes, the only coin they have to pay.
Mike, bless his oblivious heart, sent a query asking if I had a “date” tonight. My date, I informed no one but myself, was **Home Depot** and the **installation of a shower head**. This necessitated a walk—I am, by God, **gathering a lot of steps**—and the whole sorry business was under the oppressive, sweaty blanket of a **warm September 26th**. The heat was so profuse that I had to change my undershirt, looking, no doubt, like some plump, profusely perspiring fellow from a bad drawing.
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## The Cigar and the Contrarian Creed
Now, I sit in my spot, a proper, **normal-size cigar** in my hand—not some piddling mini—and take my ease, watching the procession of humanity. My sister has returned from Europe, and tomorrow the **sister-in-law** and I will have a lunch of whispered concerns regarding my brother’s situation. The sorrows are like rain; you can only stand under them.
Mike called again, blathering on about his “beloved” and the **”haters”** who were vexing him on social media for the **sheer volume of his posts**. The world, you see, is full of people who talk, talk, talk, and a few who must, by God, listen. I had to cut him off—a third call, this time from Bill, demanded attention.
It dawned on me that the **weight on my shoulders** was not my own; it was the accumulated burden of **Marcus, Mike, and even Bill**. I have my own anxieties, of course—I’m **yessing them to death** in meetings and pretending competence where there is only weariness.
Then, a fellow walks by, **Richie the cigar guy**. I waved him down, and he sat, and we discussed art, cigars, and the sweet science of photography. It was a pleasant interruption, brief, as all good things are. Before the bell of the office called me back, he asked about my **blog**. I told him I wrote it for years, then stopped after **losing a job or two** from the indiscretion of the written word. But I had **restarted in August 2024**, telling **nobody**.
He didn’t grasp the logic. Why write if you don’t seek fortune? I told him plainly: **I’m doing it for myself**. It is a **contrarian** act, perhaps. A man must write it down, if only to prove to the ghosts and the shower-wreckers that he was here. And here I am.