On the Bus

So, I am a NY transplant loving the ease with which one can navigate this crumbling, verdant little city.

Like all great art, the ‘Mats are being discovered by gens x,y and z. The tech guy from my last job in NY, sent right from central casting, 28, almost tenured, brilliant, 19 lbs. and a real live Sherman from Mr. Peabody fame, said, are you moving to Minneapolis to be closer to PW. No, says I, crumbs on the keyboard, a squealing mouse stuck to a glue pad in the corner of my furnace-office, I am taking self an meager ownings there to ride the bus to work and listen to On the Bus on my generic mp3 player. Yes, not the first to think of it, but undoubtedly one of a handful of guys PW’s age to do so. And Fuck Apple, says I, which,of course, had him blushing.

Everything was going great until that tough-luck mouse came back to haunt me in the guise of a boss too small to be a rat but just the right size to walk in and out of one of those cartoon mouse holes in the wall. I couldn’t find it but was so convinced it existed and she was scurrying in and out all day with shreds of incriminating financial documents that I was beginning to resemble the Nick Nolte character in Affliction. At some point I had to be chemically mellowed with a drug so potent it was impossible not to get on the wrong bus from time to time and get to work around lunchtime. Apparently that kind of timing is frowned upon in the Midwest.

Yes, another fine mess, pickle, tight spot, etc., but my ex-colleague in NY thinks I am cool geezer. Just toggle your resume, says he.

A last TC hurrah with PW would make young Sherman awfully proud, especially with the advent of the camera phone.