Now my brother is older than me – 7 and a half years older – and my half brother. Our father is Italian-American. My mom is that vague American mix of a bit German and a lot of who really cares. My brother is blond. He was about 5 when my parents got married and felt the need to declare loudly and often, “She’s...
“Why do you have a key on your wall?”
“Oh, that? I thought it looked nice.”
“It’s big and old and clunky but quite detailed. I like it. I guess it’s because I grew up with old things. I’d like to say I collect them, but I just have the one.”
“You mean it doesn’t go to anything?” “When was the last time a key like that open anything?”
“So it’s not a family thing?”
“You didn’t get the history behind it?”
“I got it at a flea market, not an antique dealer.” “But it’s so interesting!”
“I know; that’s why I got it.”
“No, I mean the...
You know that one guy at the office? The one that never seems to leave?
Mine is called Bartleby.
That’s all I know. Yes, I know that he does something bleak and dull in accounting. The substance, though, where he’s from, if he’s married, his first name for Christ’s sake, remains a mystery.
Ours is a social office. Every few weeks we take a long lunch on Friday, go out, and relax. Whenever the e-mail is sent out, almost immediately we get Bartleby’s reply:
I would prefer not to.
Sometimes people bring in cake or something. We take a break;...