A video is playing right now. The agency sent it to me. In case I am operating a forklift, I will know how to fill out the proper paperwork when this opportunity arises. The narrator sounds like he is a high school student at a boys’ school narrating for extra credit. He stumbles, he stammers, and comes across as awkward. It’s called How to Do an OP63.
The video plays. I type on a tablet. Obviously I am not paying any attention to the junior bar’s speaker. The video ended and there were no follow up questions. Last night was good. Bill and I caught up on Ted Lasso and ended on a bittersweet note. Jeopardy was more uplifting. I am at my fruit stand, Bill is on the road and Mike is in his crib. Today is his beloved’s birthday. William Wade is 60.
Back in May I told a coworker about pretzels that had expired in November 2025. The seemed shocking and the coworker felt they had recently ordered them. They also said they would check it out but in August they hadn’t done anything so I took it upon myself to throw them out.
Yesterday they got back to me and asked what happened to the pretzels and when I told them, they asked why did I throw them out, explained they had expired almost a year ago and they mentioned they could have still been donated to a homeless organization. I explained that that seemed like a bad idea, and they told me soup kitchens routinely give out food that had expired 10 years ago.
It was an odd conversation and I contacted Janis who was sitting next to Yancy and filled Yancy in on the situation. Yancy was not happy about this conversation and the thought of donating expired food in the name of the belly of the beast was not a smart decision. I explained that this is what I was told.
Yancy asked me to forward any correspondence on this matter to him since they were planning a meeting with this employee and this is more information that they could use since this employee has been doing some dodgy things indeed,
Next week I will be in the vicinity of the belly of the beast, Monday to Thursday. I think I have a good handle on this situation with none of the anxiety I used to carry around.
I’ve been snacking all morning and was thinking of getting halal food but I’m not hungry, I would be eating according to a schedule, not my personal reality. So I think I will pass on the halal food.
Spoke with Bill on the phone, driving up the NJ Turnpike. Mike is at his crib. I have a cigar in front of me that I will light up in about an hour. For I am a grown up and this is what grown ups do. I think.
Once again, this is written on a tablet, not the befuddled method of dictation. But I do want to bring this tablet home so I could use it next week at the belly of the hive. And I ate a jelly donut and I have jelly on my shirt. What else is new?
A Google Gemini Sarah Vowell essay
A video is playing right now on my screen. The agency sent it to me under the bold, overly optimistic assumption that should I ever find myself behind the wheel of a forklift, I will possess the bureaucratic fortitude to fill out the correct administrative paperwork.
The narrator sounds like a sophomore at an all-boys Catholic school doing a reading for extra credit to avoid summer school. He stumbles. He stammers. He radiates the distinct, sweaty awkwardness of a teenager forced to read aloud from a pamphlet entitled *How to Do an OP63*.
Naturally, the video plays while I type away on my tablet, paying zero attention to our adolescent orator. When the tape mercifully concludes, there are no follow-up questions—no pop quiz on proper pallet-stacking protocol.
It is a quiet contrast to last night, which was altogether more civilized. Bill and I caught up on *Ted Lasso*, ending on a bittersweet note that was quickly sanitized by an episode of *Jeopardy!*. Today, the domestic machinery churns on: I am at my fruit stand, Bill is somewhere out on the highway, and Mike is resting in his crib. Today is also a milestone in American history, or at least in ours: William Wade turns 60.
Meanwhile, a low-stakes archival scandal has been brewing in the workplace.
Back in May, I alerted a coworker to a batch of pretzels that had expired in November 2025. This felt like a significant lapse in inventory management, and the coworker expressed appropriate shock, claiming they’d only just ordered them. They promised to “check it out.” By August, having observed no motion on the pretzel front, I took the executive, patriotic duty upon myself to throw them in the trash.
Yesterday, the saga reached its absurd climax. The coworker asked what happened to the pretzels. When I confessed to the purge, they looked at me with genuine dismay and asked *why*. I pointed out that the pretzels were nearly a year past their shelf life. They casually informed me that the pretzels could have been donated to a homeless shelter, adding—with terrifying confidence—that soup kitchens “routinely give out food that expired ten years ago.”
Because nothing says civil society quite like serving decade-old snacks to the vulnerable.
It was an unsettling exchange, so I called Janis, who happened to be sitting next to Yancy, and briefed them on the great pretzel debate. Yancy was profoundly unamused. The notion of donating historical food items in the name of the organization struck him as less than brilliant. I assured him I was merely the messenger reporting on the local madness.
Yancy asked me to forward all paper trails. It turns out this coworker has been engaging in a series of dodgy administrative maneuvers, and my pretzel intervention is just another exhibit in the case file for their upcoming performance review.
Next week, I will spend Monday through Thursday in the deep interior of the bureaucracy. The surprising part is that I actually have a handle on it. The ambient anxiety I used to drag around like heavy luggage seems to have dissolved.
I’ve been snacking all morning and briefly toyed with the idea of getting halal food for lunch, but the truth is I’m not actually hungry. Buying lunch now would mean eating according to an arbitrary clock rather than my own biological reality, so I pass.
Bill calls from his truck, navigating the concrete expanse of the New Jersey Turnpike. Mike remains stationed in his crib. In front of me sits a cigar that I intend to light up in about an hour. I will do this because I am an adult, and this is the sort of ritual adults engage in to signal their authority over their own time. At least, I think that’s how it works.
I should note, for the record, that I am typing this directly onto a tablet, sparing everyone the erratic syntax of my usual dictation. I plan to take the tablet home tonight so I can deploy it next week inside the hive.
Also, I just ate a jelly donut, and there is now red jam smeared across my shirt. But then, what else is new?
And a Google Gemini rewrite as a rhyming poem
A training tape is playing from the agency today,
In case I drive a forklift and need paperwork on the way.
The narrator stumbles like a kid who’s in high school,
Doing extra credit, sounding awkward, stiff, and uncool.
“How to Do an OP63,” the title page reads,
While I tap on my tablet and ignore all his deeds.
The video concludes with no questions to test,
And I ponder last evening, which was lovely at best.
Bill and I watched *Ted Lasso*—bittersweet at the end—
Then *Jeopardy!* lifted up the mood to amend.
Now I stand at my fruit stand while Bill’s on the track,
And little Mike’s in his crib, taking a nap in the back.
Today is a milestone, sixty years to parade:
A very happy birthday unto William Wade!
Back in May, I caught pretzels that expired last year,
November twenty-five was the date that was clear.
My coworker was shocked, said they’d check out the box,
But by August had done nothing, so I dumped out the stocks.
Yesterday they confronted me: “Where did they go?”
I said, “They were ancient,” but they answered me, “No!
We could give them to shelter homes,” or so they declared,
Saying kitchens serve decade-old food unimpaired!
An odd conversation—so I called up friend Janis,
Who sat right by Yancy, so I filled in his canvas.
Yancy wasn’t too happy; donating stale treats
Is a terrible look for the beast in these streets.
He asked for the emails, to print and review,
For this shady coworker has a meeting that’s due.
Next week I’ll be working in the beast’s inner zone,
From Monday to Thursday, completely on my own.
Yet I carry no angst like I carried before,
I’ve a handle on things as I walk through the door.
I’ve been snacking all morning, thought of halal to buy,
But I’m really not hungry, so I’ll pass it on by.
Eating now is a schedule, not my actual state,
So I’ll listen to body over time on a plate.
Bill called from his truck on the Jersey Turnpike,
While back in his crib sits sweet baby Mike.
A cigar sits before me, to light up in an hour,
Like a grown-up who claims a small moment of power.
I typed on a tablet—no dictation mess—
To take home for next week in the hive of success.
And a jelly donut left a bright red stain on my crew…
A smudge on my shirt, but hey, what else is new?