He nearly spilled it, walking in the door.
I could see him futzing around with something in the kitchen through my office door. I was meant to be working on… something. Some thing or other for a client, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, wrestle that gigantic thing into a more manageable one thing on which I could focus. I had the brief thought that I could write about what he was doing in there. But the client, a technology company specializing in mass media storage and some sort of social networking component, didn’t have much to do with the kitchen. Or much of anything I could figure, really. Each meeting I had with their brass seemed to result in a lot of doublespeak which wouldn’t seem to duplicitous while I was there, but as I left the conference room in which we’d meet I’d slowly feel the ‘gotta have’ fog begin to lift, and I could sense a growing unease with what, exactly, they were selling by the time I got to the reception desk. By the time I got into the elevator it was completely gone, and I was in another anonymous elevator in the city, exiting any other building in the city, in which various people of various talent levels worked and slaved to some end each day. By the time I hit the street, if I’d been asked by a passerby where I’d just been I’d have a hard time answering, which wasn’t helpful at all when I was sitting down an hour later in my office, trying to write something compelling about what it is they provided.
So maybe what he was doing in the kitchen was applicable. Because I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, either.
So I was following him intently, failing to write a single thing, when he turned, and I could see the breakfast tray in his hands, a mug front and center in the middle of it. I followed him as he crossed the kitchen floor, onto the carpet of the living room, and up to my door. I loved the flow of our house, how open, how connected it all seemed.
And I also saw him hit the wood floor of my office and slip and slide in his sock feet, wobble mightily with his tray rattling and quaking against the mug before he managed, somehow, to regain his balance.
He laid the tray on my desk, and, without a word, left me. With my sunset in a cup glowing faintly next to my laptop keyboard.
The founding father of Sane Magazine will be making a special appearance at the Charlton Public Library on October 18th at 1pm, that’s this Saturday, for a reading from Fenway Fiction and Further Fenway Fiction, with the editor of the collections, Adam Pacther.
Bring your copies of either Fenway Fiction, maybe get a sneak peek of the third installment of the series, and maybe even win a haddock if you can sing along with more than half the words of any given story I decide to read! What more could you ask for?
Please, please, please show up. Even if the Red Sox don’t. Please? We don’t want to beg, but we will. Otherwise I’ll be reading to the crickets again…
Or, visit our store at Amazon… check out some of the books that inspire or otherwise provoke the Sane Magazine writers.