I walked across the bridge again today for the first time in several months. Certain tinglings surfaced, and the mind began to pulse in anticipation. Anticipation of what? The future is right out there, dangling and waiting to be owned, like a swollen fruit.
Speaking of 'Swollen Fruit', I was visited today by my editor. I had a couple of carburetors out on my workbench, and I was making progress in their disassembly. Aramotized chemicals were adrift in my section of the building, and I was a little on edge when the garage door rolled up to reveal his corpus magnum there, smiling for some reason unknown to me. I felt annoyed and tried to pretend this insult was not happening. It was no use. There he remained standing beside my workbench, with that ridiculous toothy smile still, fidgeting. He dug about in the armpit of his nylon parka. He scratched his bald head, and then began to pick at something on the front of his pants. His smile persisted. It reminded me of a great ape at the zoo, or a minstrel show participant sans blackface. How was I supposed to dislodge a broken main jet carrier bolt from the carb body under these conditions?
"What is it!" I finally demanded to know. "I told you already I would have your money after I was paid this week! How am I supposed to get anything done with you calling me and stopping by every ten minutes!!?!"
He glanced down at his shoes, in shame I guessed, and fiddled with his laces for a moment. This obvious admission of unsavory behavior emboldened my sense of outrage.
"Speak up man!" I threw a wrench to the floor to punctuate, "What is it? Use your words!"
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