Any man with a superior air, the intelligence of a stockbroker, and the resolution of a hat-check girl - in brief, any man who believes in himself enough, and with sufficient cause, to be called a journeyman - can cadge enough money, in this glorious commonwealth of morons, to make life soft for him.
H.L. Mencken - 1922.

Arrive to work promptly at 8. The office is crypt-like, dark and empty. On the speakers, Eric Dolphy is Out to Lunch, and I'm engaged with breakfast en mi escritorio - a bagel & coffee & HL Mencken in The American Mercury. His writing reminds me of my highschool vocabulary tests, and of the word vituperative printed in fragrant purple mimeograph ink.

My quiet morning leisure is interrupted by that damn telephone. There are actually 4 damn phones, and I can hear each & every damn one ringing throughout the office suite. Music OFF - I have to talk to these people. What the hell do they want? What could they want at this hour? Usually, there are questions - questions that I can't answer without sounding like an ignoramus, but more often, it is they who sound far worse, yammering on & stuttering as though they were on a 1-900# for the pervertedly bookish. During extreme hardcore situations, such as today's mirthless discussion of Anne Rice, I operate straight from the helm - inside the boss's office stronghold, wherein are housed the reference library and the precious Cuervo reserves. It takes all of my concentration & focus - to speak politely & coherently - to crossreference inane minutiae - to pour steadily - and then, to express warm & sincere thanks for their phone call & stupid questions. Fortunately, on this occasion, the relevant information on Anne Rice proved far too scarce, so I said screw it and gently admitted to the guy that I didn't really know or care enough about vampire books to sufficiently fulfill his creepy needs. I hung up with the satisfaction that comes only from a job well done.

8:30 - My hand lifts from the receiver and navigates past a glass dish upon which is erected a Mayan step-pyramid composed entirely of cigarette butts, all crushed like accordions. Fingers glide above page 5 of a coffee-stained contract, and touchdown safely in the large box of chocolate covered espresso beans - the only solid food item I've ever witnessesed my boss eat through 2.5 years in his employ - I drop one in my mouth and look out my boss's window, through the spruce wreath hanging outside, and down to the street where Blue43, the Popov Bus, is hurtling eastbound. A pause, a thought, a sigh, and then the damn phones - they coarsely ring.