As I've said before, my rule of thumb for these projects is to find the end date, count up the number of days set out for the project, divide it in half, round up if I end up with a half, and just assume that we will be working for that long. Well, we were given seven days, so I thought we were good for four. That Wednesday, however, we were told that we would probably get done by the next day, although there was a very small chance we'd get done on Friday. Then, in the morning, my supervisor said that we probably wouldn't make it till lunch. Then right before we had our morning break we were getting down to the very last papers. The person overseeing the entire project -- essentially my supervisor's supervisor -- said that we would be paid for a half-day that day. So we got paid for three-and-a-half days although we didn't make it even that far. We barely met the very, very basic tenet of my rule of thumb, money-wise, and fell way short under the terms I usually use. In other words, I was not too happy we got done so fast.
So what the fuck am I going to do? At least I did plan on eating close by. I also was planning on just walking across the street, but landscapers were working around where I parked my car, so just to get out of their way (even though they set up cones to mark off the parking spots they were going to use and I was a couple spots away) I drove the .2 miles to the restaurant's parking lot, in time, I think, to catch eat and watch the middle of a game the Twinks would eventually lose to the Bay Rays. Since I didn't know exactly what to get, I resorted just to an appetizer. Without giving the name of the restaurant away (because that might give away the place I work), let me say it is its signature item, a smaller version.
As I was getting down with my food, and as the Twinks continued to lose to the Bay Rays, the bartender was giving food to a customer who was just coming in to pick up an order. Suddenly, he was holding a box and offering it everybody in the bar. "Fries," he said. And hey, free food, and I had free time. What the hell?
The box is deceptively big. The fries were good, and I thought I could just slowly thin its ranks by grazing. It's not as if I had anything else to do. But as a reminder that I wasn't half the man I was twenty or even ten years ago, my stomach hit a wall, so to speak. My appetite slowed, then stopped. And though I rarely get disgusted with putting food in my mouth, it got to the point where I literally resented the fries I was eating.
I may have made it halfway through the bottomless pit of fries when I did something I don't usually do: I pushed it away from me, telling the bartender that I couldn't take it anymore. It's not like I paid for it, but I still felt bad for wasting what were perfectly good fries. I just couldn't finish it all.
After paying and wobbling all the way to the bathroom and back, I glanced over at the bar. Dutifully, the bartender had already taken away all my plates; it was if I was never there. And I assume that he just threw the fries I couldn't eat into the trash. I could have taken them home, but who wants leftover fries? Still, what a waste.
---
Later that afternoon I was hanging out at the mall closest to me. I've been hanging out at this place since I was able to walk. Maybe I should grow up. Naaaaaaaaaah, I like hanging out at the mall closest to me, doing nothing. Feel safe there.
What I usually do is take a circuit around the mall, which is laid out in a "T" pattern. That makes it easy for me to trace the exterior side of the mall because this mall has stores only on one side (not counting the kiosks in the middle of the hall). While walking past the Auntie Anne's, I spot a card that looked familiar. It had a pretzel stamp on it, meaning it was one of Auntie Anne's Frequent Eater Cards.
Could I have taken it? Sure, I could. But it wasn't mine. And everybody could seem pick that card up off the floor. No way could I just stick it in my pocket without someone noticing or, worse, the person whose card that was found me taking it. Not worth it.
So I instead walked over to the Auntie Anne's counter and gave it to the woman manning the cash register. "You know, I knew it had to be a card someone dropped," she may have said; I don't exactly remember what she said, but it was something like this. As she was about to slide it underneath the cash register, though, she asked me, "Do you want this?"
Well, now that you're offering ... You know, I eat there occasionally and if I could get a head start towards getting a free pretzel dog (I eschew the straight-up pretzel and get the pretzel dog instead, and I always get the cheese dip), all the better. But I said no. I couldn't just take this card that doesn't belong to me. Besides, I already have two of these cards, both of which have been in my possession for at least -- and I ain't shittin' ya -- a decade. I may not get around to even getting the card I picked up completely stamped out till I can collect Social Security. It took me about a second to stick to my guns and politely decline the woman's offer of taking the card.
And as soon as I walked away I regretted it. No, I may not ever get around to using it. But it's one small slip of paper that I could keep in my wallet till the day I die. So what if I don't use it -- better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, you know ... sort of? You never know if I could get around to using it. Just as important is the fate of the card itself. There's little chance its rightful owner would care enough to retrace her or his steps and ask the person at the Auntie Anne's counter if someone turned in her or his Frequent Eater Card. In all likelihood that card, with that one solitary stamp, was thrown away, just like the fries I had earlier that afternoon. If that's the case, I don't see why I couldn't give that card a home. So I am disproportionately troubled by it.
As I was getting down with my food, and as the Twinks continued to lose to the Bay Rays, the bartender was giving food to a customer who was just coming in to pick up an order. Suddenly, he was holding a box and offering it everybody in the bar. "Fries," he said. And hey, free food, and I had free time. What the hell?
The box is deceptively big. The fries were good, and I thought I could just slowly thin its ranks by grazing. It's not as if I had anything else to do. But as a reminder that I wasn't half the man I was twenty or even ten years ago, my stomach hit a wall, so to speak. My appetite slowed, then stopped. And though I rarely get disgusted with putting food in my mouth, it got to the point where I literally resented the fries I was eating.
I may have made it halfway through the bottomless pit of fries when I did something I don't usually do: I pushed it away from me, telling the bartender that I couldn't take it anymore. It's not like I paid for it, but I still felt bad for wasting what were perfectly good fries. I just couldn't finish it all.
After paying and wobbling all the way to the bathroom and back, I glanced over at the bar. Dutifully, the bartender had already taken away all my plates; it was if I was never there. And I assume that he just threw the fries I couldn't eat into the trash. I could have taken them home, but who wants leftover fries? Still, what a waste.
---
Later that afternoon I was hanging out at the mall closest to me. I've been hanging out at this place since I was able to walk. Maybe I should grow up. Naaaaaaaaaah, I like hanging out at the mall closest to me, doing nothing. Feel safe there.
What I usually do is take a circuit around the mall, which is laid out in a "T" pattern. That makes it easy for me to trace the exterior side of the mall because this mall has stores only on one side (not counting the kiosks in the middle of the hall). While walking past the Auntie Anne's, I spot a card that looked familiar. It had a pretzel stamp on it, meaning it was one of Auntie Anne's Frequent Eater Cards.
Could I have taken it? Sure, I could. But it wasn't mine. And everybody could seem pick that card up off the floor. No way could I just stick it in my pocket without someone noticing or, worse, the person whose card that was found me taking it. Not worth it.
So I instead walked over to the Auntie Anne's counter and gave it to the woman manning the cash register. "You know, I knew it had to be a card someone dropped," she may have said; I don't exactly remember what she said, but it was something like this. As she was about to slide it underneath the cash register, though, she asked me, "Do you want this?"
Well, now that you're offering ... You know, I eat there occasionally and if I could get a head start towards getting a free pretzel dog (I eschew the straight-up pretzel and get the pretzel dog instead, and I always get the cheese dip), all the better. But I said no. I couldn't just take this card that doesn't belong to me. Besides, I already have two of these cards, both of which have been in my possession for at least -- and I ain't shittin' ya -- a decade. I may not get around to even getting the card I picked up completely stamped out till I can collect Social Security. It took me about a second to stick to my guns and politely decline the woman's offer of taking the card.
And as soon as I walked away I regretted it. No, I may not ever get around to using it. But it's one small slip of paper that I could keep in my wallet till the day I die. So what if I don't use it -- better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, you know ... sort of? You never know if I could get around to using it. Just as important is the fate of the card itself. There's little chance its rightful owner would care enough to retrace her or his steps and ask the person at the Auntie Anne's counter if someone turned in her or his Frequent Eater Card. In all likelihood that card, with that one solitary stamp, was thrown away, just like the fries I had earlier that afternoon. If that's the case, I don't see why I couldn't give that card a home. So I am disproportionately troubled by it.
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