I have been here a little over 3 hours at the fruit stand, and I swear I have been here for about eight hours. It just feels that way. Fridays are generally slow, and today, being a Friday, lives up to that slowness. Bill is way down south, Mike is in my apartment, probably shooting videos or taking pictures.
It is a sunny day, which is an unusual occurrence lately. It’s been cold and damn the past week or so. Some days it’s cold, some days it’s damp. It’s the last Friday of the month of April in 2026. Yancy usually has a neeting scheduled at the main fruit stand but he mentioned on Wednesday he was thinking about cancelling it this month, and I asked him about it yesterday, and it served as a reminder to cancel said meeting.
For the past few months I have used the meeting to my advantage and getting a little more sleep in the morning since the meeting don’t start until 9 AM. That means I would leave my apartment at 8 AM instead of 7 AM. But my sanity was more important this week and after yesterday’s conscientious fiasco it was all for the best.
This weekend seems to be promised as a bit of a downer. Saturday is supposed to be a rainy day all day. And Sunday is supposed to be a bit colder than usual. Bill should be back on Wednesday though he says Tuesday I think I know better. He would be hesitant to agree but where Bill is good with being on the road and following a schedule, when it comes to me there is no schedule for Bill. He does what he does and I take his predicvtions with a grain of salt.
It is now almost 4 hours that I have been here and it feels like it is time to go home but I am getting ahead of myself by about 5 hours. Maybe 4 hours since I do intend on taking my lunch hour.
The lunch hour has passed. I am back at the ‘oh so quiet ‘ desk. I finally got in touch with Mike. He claimed to be napping which might make sense since he was up until 3:30 AM doing whatever it is that he does.
Videos, photos, men from around the world. I suppose he can’t resist the eyeballs on his profiles, his cigar smoking videos and of course that cock of his.
I fear that he might be getting used to not working and he’s going to have to get a job. It was difficult last year getting him a job or at least an interview. So, I am hesitant this year.
I was hoping to finish writing this on the tablet but I cannot so I am doing this on my phone. It is so quiet here; it is so slow nothing is happening. Generally it’s okay, sometimes it’s unnerving, and right now it’s a little bit unnerving.
Presently I am listening to a podcast called “off the record – on the charts” which features Joe Mardin, Adam Dorn, and Dana Dowd, the children of Arif Mardin, Joel Dorn and Tom Dowd. Right now they’re interviewing Paul Wexler, son of Jerry.
Legendary Atlantic Records producers. I’m fascinated by what I am hearing, especially since the producer fathers are no longer with us.
Around the corner from the fruit stand is a Catholic boys high school. I see a few boys riding the PATH train from Hoboken in the morning. I suppose there are boys from Jersey City as well. I looked up the yearly tuition for this Catholic high school and it’s $26000.00. 46 years ago the tuition for Paramus Catholic was $1000.00. I know this because of my father yelling at me as he hit me regarding a bad report card.
Google Gemini essay ala Mark Twain
There is a certain brand of molasses-flavored eternity that can only be found behind the counter of a fruit stand on a Friday afternoon. I have been anchored to this spot for a little over three hours, yet my internal clock—a reliable instrument usually—insists, with a straight face, that I have been here for eight.
Time, you see, is a fluid thing. It gallops when you are holding a winning hand at poker and slows to a paralytic crawl when you are watching a banana ripen in the April sun.
## The State of Affairs
Today is the final Friday of April, in the year of our Lord 2026. Outside, the sun is shining with a boldness that is frankly suspicious, given that the past week has been a dismal procession of damp, shivering days. It is the sort of weather that makes a man contemplate the virtues of a heavy overcoat and a heavier whiskey.
The cast of characters in my little drama are scattered to the winds:
* **Bill:** Currently drifting somewhere in the “Great South.” He claims he’ll be back Tuesday. I say Wednesday. Bill is a man who treats a schedule like a suggestion from a distant relative—polite to hear, but easy to ignore.
* **Mike:** Occupying my apartment and, if I know the lad, currently engaged in the modern vanity of “content.” He spends his hours capturing images of himself and his cigars for the amusement of the digital masses. He was asleep until mid-afternoon, having been awake until the unholy hour of 3:30 AM.
* **Yancy:** Our local director of ceremonies. He threatened to hold a meeting today, but I whispered a few well-timed discouragements in his ear yesterday. My sanity required it.
> “A man who attempts to find logic in a Friday fruit stand schedule is a man who would try to catch a moonbeam in a bucket.”
—
## Reflections on Labor and Lucre
I fear for Mike. He is growing accustomed to the leisure of the unemployed, a dangerous habit that is easier to pick up than a cold and twice as hard to shake. Last year, securing him an interview was a labor that would have exhausted Hercules; I have little stomach for a repeat performance.
To pass this “unnerving” silence, I have been listening to a broadcast concerning the sons of the great Atlantic Records producers—Mardin, Dorn, and Dowd. It is a strange thing to hear the echoes of legendary fathers through the voices of their progeny. It reminds one that greatness is rarely inherited, though the stories certainly are.
## The Cost of Knowledge
Nearby stands a Catholic high school for boys. I took the liberty of looking up their tuition. It sits at a princely **$26,000**.
This revelation brought back a stinging memory from forty-six years ago. In those days, the tuition at Paramus Catholic was a mere **$1,000**. I am certain of this figure because my father—a man of firm convictions and a firmer right hand—shouted it into my ear with great rhythmic precision while he corrected my lackluster report card.
It seems the price of beating sense into a boy has risen by twenty-five thousand dollars. I can’t help but wonder if the quality of the beating has improved to match the inflation.
—
The sun is still out, the fruit remains unbothered by customers, and I have five hours of this “leisure” left to endure. If you need me, I shall be here, aging at a rate of four minutes for every sixty seconds that pass.