The insurance place parking space sign, EMPLOYEE OF THE QUARTER. I
think of my careers in such buildings, the desperate and futile hope
for sales, the Sisyphean task of the prospect list and the cold,
unfriendly black telephone. I think of the smaller mind I had, and a
smaller life in compartments. A smaller beiger life in small smarmy
compartments as a depthless creature of secondhand will, will drilled
into me by parents, educators and their ilk.

Echoes ghosts. A handle on the fugitive feelings. The cool wind and the
gradient sky, the profuse foliage, sycamores and gingkos and
eucalyptus, long white trunks hanging paper soft five pointed leaves of
delicate monotonous green, green and dim, windows dim and masonry. And
the green growing walls, the green viny walls with doors in them.

The television antenna atop the long industrial building. We had one on
our white stone chimney on our white stone roof, growing up. Now and
then I'd go up with Dad to work on it. Dull gray metal with white dots
of corrosion. This thing stayed out in all weathers seining the air for
the Flintstones, Bugs Bunny, the Mickey Mouse Club, Star Trek, Love
Boat, Battlestar Galactica. 7 stations. Plus UHF: channel 28, channel
52. And channel 34, all-Spanish programming. If the conditions were
right you could get channel 8 from San Diego. Channel 10, channel
12...those unofficial channels, image swimming in snow. I would turn
down the bright on the snow and imagine I was flying through space.

People at the bus stops. Another dead workweek. There will be workweeks
until the end of time. How strange, workweeks, when we were children.
No vacation, just workweeks until you die.