Just some 411.
LEVEL THREE (a novel)
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Affirmations, Et Cetera
Just some 411.
MAEVE GALLAGHER knew as soon as the door burst open who had just entered the local diner, the Madisonville Family Restaurant.
Elie stood, as red-faced as a half Dominican could be, next to Maeve’s table.
Maeve stirred her tea.
“Were you not taught how to enter a respectable public establishment?” she asked.
Elie didn’t budge. The waitresses kept their distance. The other patrons ate their lunches. One baby sat in her high chair, gurgling and smiling.
Maeve picked up her fork and cut her fried eggs, yoke broken, into surgical strips.
Elie huffed and left the restaurant. Outside, he took two deep breaths. He entered the diner a second time.
He walked over to Maeve’s table.
“Hi, Maeve,” he said.
“Hello, Elie. Sit down,” she sailed, motioning to the other side of the booth. “Steve got those Celtics tickets for Friday night.”
Brielle, a young, pretty waitress, came to the table with an orange soda pop. She placed it in front of Elie.
“And a blueberry muffin, toasted, no extra butter,” Maeve ordered, though it was unnecessary. Maeve always got two eggs, fried, broken yoke; bacon, well-done; raisin toast, dry; and, a pot of hot water for her tea.
Ellie’s usual was orange soda pop, no ice, and a blueberry muffin.
“The plans for the access TV center redesign are all jacked-up,” he said. “My edit suite is gone, and so is Veronica’s conference room.”
“You let Veronica fight for her own stuff,” she said. “I’m tired of her expecting everyone else to make the hard decisions at the MAC.”
Brielle came back with Elie’s muffin. “Nick put it on the grill as soon as he saw you.”
Maeve handed her a ten and a five dollar bills.
“Keep that, Brielle,” Maeve said.
Brielle smiled and left.
“What did Peter Wilton put in their place? A shrine to himself?”
Elie chuckled. “Just about. His office is twice the size it used to be. He’s only going to fill it with more crap.”
He dug into his blueberry muffin, a signal that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“Did Alex finish that music for Kieron and Emily’s video?”
“Good. I’m glad he’s getting more involved at the MAC. You get to see more of him, and it keeps Frank Corcoran away from him,” Maeve said.
“I’m glad you started calling him ‘he’,” Elie said, speaking, chewing, and swallowing at the same time.
“I’ll call him ‘Myrtle’ if that’s what it takes to keep him out of trouble’.”
Shiny Object: “All politics is … deadly.”
And, last but not least, there is Randolph P. Yarrow the Third (RPY3), a living, breathing example of everything that is wrong with heredity. Considered by some to be a local version of President Bush #43 (the son), Yarrow made the former president sound like a Nobel laureate. Yarrow would talk — or, more precisely, babble — through a laundry list of concerns and issues. And though his issues were legitimate, from crumbling, abandoned buildings to the opioid crisis (another ‘shiny object’) to the dismal performance of the senior shuttle, poor Yarrow himself was no President Reagan.
During one particularly contentious session, Deb and Maeve got the agenda shuffled so Yarrow could speak last. “Better than a martini to numb your nerves after a hard day’s work,” Deb said.
Shiny Object: All politics is … deadly.”
Miss Agatha, the Writing Dominatrix
“Commit a crime and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime and it seems as though a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole. You cannot recall [take back] the spoken word. You cannot wipe out a foot track. You cannot draw up the ladder so as to leave no inlet or clue. Some damning circumstance always transpires.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
“[M]any people believe that memory works like a recording device. You just record the information, then you call it up and play it back when you want to answer questions or identify images. But decades of work in psychology has shown that this just isn’t true. Our memories are constructive. They’re reconstructive. Memory works a little bit more like a Wikipedia page: You can go in there and change it, but so can other people.”
Why is 24/7 a myth?
Let’s divide the week into 21 block of eight (8) hours each.
Out of 21 blocks, you sleep seven (7) of those blocks. 21 – 7 = 14.
Out of the remaining 14 blocks, you work five (5) of those blocks. 14 – 5 = 9.
Out of the remaining nine (9) blocks, you travel back-and-forth to work one (1) block. (One hour to work, one hour to home, times 5 workdays equals 10 hours.) 9 – 1 = 8.
So, the 188 hours ( 24 X 7 ), in effect, is only 64 hours ( 8 X 8 ).
Something to think about the next time someone tries to sell you a “24/7″ service.