Due to unforeseen circumstances, the usual plans for delivery of lunch to our outpost of humanity in the savage veldt of Hayward fell by the wayside today.
We were on our own. Which is very sad.
[Background: regular readers will know that the company moved to a warehouse location in the East Bay recently, forsaking our rather splendid digs in San Francisco. It is a hardship, as many of us live in the city, and some do not have vehicles. So to alleviate our suffering, the company makes sure that we don’t have to fend for ourselves amid the growling savages out here in the industrial wastelands several miles from anywhere.]
In consequence of this development, I discovered that some people are instinctively group feeders – let’s call them bovines – and some people are solitary diners – the rogue elephants, so to speak.
Herds versus bulls.
An e-mail I sent asking if anyone was planning to drive anywhere for lunch got one response.
Just one.
"I’m not, I have to run an errand."
That makes the person who answered one of three rogue elephants in the company.
But only for a day. Another R.E. was too busy.
So actually, there is only one.
I'm well-mannered, considerate, cheerful, and I don't smell too badly.
But nevertheless, rogue elephant.
Not fit company for the self-acknowledged splendid folks in Operations, Sales, Marketing, or Management.
I handle bill collection.
I'm other.
I am the rogue elephant, roaming the swamp and terrifying the natives, I am the heavy tusked bull devouring the villagers and their adorable children!
I trample fields of sorghum and cause starvation.
Hear me trumpet!
Oh well, screw it. Wasn't looking forward to eating with that bunch of drips anyway.
It's extremely of peaceful here with none of them around. No long disquisitions about shopping, shoes, real housewives of wherever, baseball, football, ice hockey, or golf.
Hayward - the place that 'indigestion' calls home.
Having just finished the karmic equivalent of a can of cat food from the only deli within hiking distance, I will now go outside and smoke a bowl of Orlik Golden Sliced (a fine flake tobacco) while communing with the local corvid population. There's a tree not too far away, where three crows live.
They're cheerful fellows, perfect company.
Birds really do not seem to mind that I'm old and smelly, and cannot discourse wittily about shopping, shoes, real housewives, baseball, and football.
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