Being Greeted

When I walked into the office for the first time the space was womb-dark and smelled like warm food. Halloween decorations were liberally strewn across the ceiling and draped over unmanned, makeshift computer workstations. I stood there for a moment, and was quickly met by my friends who are my new employers. They apologized about the mess, and I thought to myself that it reminded me of a familiar place.

We walked together through a doorway into a bright room where I was noisily greeted by the owner and the entire staff of eight or so people. They all cheered at once, as though it were a surprise party. Someone even applauded. And I was so confused by this reaction that I thought I had just happened to walk in at the precise moment they began celebrating something for one of their existing staff. But they were looking at me.

“Who?” I asked with absolute sincerity.

“You!” they said, and laughed.

“Oh, me?” I replied. I was so surprised by this atmosphere – this unreserved, boisterous welcome – that I was still only partially capable of comprehending it.

You see, I received polite, professional, but concerned greetings when I joined my current job. People delicately made small talk one at a time and used carefully chosen words in unexpressive tones portending of danger.

It was dramatically unlike the local kine version of an Olive Garden commercial I had just walked into.

Now that I’ve had it both ways, I think maybe you can tell a lot about a place by the way people greet you. And I’m going to watch for that, and choose carefully. Life is too short. I don't want to spend it where people aren’t happy enough to be excited to share.

Quitting Day

I almost didn’t quit today.

I didn’t get the offer letter I was expecting over the weekend, and so I was prepared not to quit. But I had some business to do, and when I returned to my desk, it was waiting there. The offer. Huzzah!

It was a brief apologetic email and a series of documents that, to be honest, were practically irrelevant. My decision had been made months earlier. But I read them anyway, and they didn’t ask for my first born. So the deal was done. Now all I had to do was quit.

But I had no time for quitting. I had things that needed to be done, and then suddenly my office’s managing partner (picture your small company’s President or CEO) asked my manager and me to lunch. There was no time to quit before lunch; it would simply have to wait.

We went to a wonderful restaurant, but there was a heart audibly beating beneath the floorboards. I knew I had something to say, but another manager had come along and so even though the two men I needed to quit with were there, there was this obstacle. The obstacle told stories and we laughed, but I did not laugh inside. Only my veneer laughed.

And then the phone rang. It was a knowing ring. It started as a vibration in my pocket that was so determined it would not be ignored that it finally resorted to becoming audible. And just as knowing as the ring was, so too was the departmental partner on the other end of the line. He started with his clever salesman’s voice, “So, hehe, I’ve been hearing some rumors, hehe, and I wanted to find out from the, hehe – you know – the horses mouth.”

How could he know!? How could have cracked into my secret quitting world? But right he was. And so he was the first to hear me quit. And quit I did. Firmly, assuredly. Grateful for his kind words and attempts to dissuade me, but confident of my decision and its correctitude.

And then I sat back down and finished lunch. Chinese. Delicious.

But no sooner did I step back into the office than my engagement partner called. He too had broken the code. And he too was flattering and attempted to dissuade me, but he was also bizarrely worried that I had quit over him. Ummm… no.

I was shaken. I had been ambushed twice by my own resignation and I had not even officially given it! The adrenal roller coaster had been quite a ride up to this point.

Clearly, the gig was up, and it was time to write my letter and hand it to my manager. I edited something simple and decent from a website containing samples, and he was considerate but disappointed. My office’s managing partner, too, was disappointed and curious and so I tried to be honest and helpful. I truly felt bad for the inconvenience of leaving them right before busy season.

But someone… she had to pay for my day. My friend the audit manager had clearly played a part in the day’s drama. But she was weak. When I confronted her she broke down quickly and admitted that she had tricked my new employers into telling her my plans. She then ratted on me to her partner, who told my partners, who in turn called me and made my day very very interesting.

Very interesting indeed. What a day of quitting. What exciting new beginnings.

The Watcher Leaves

You are being watched.

Oh, yes you are.

By me.

You are hurriedly putting your bags through the agricultural quarantine scanner at the airport, and you just look like a guy from San Francisco. Like a guy I might even know. But you are trying to dress like you’ve been to Hawai`i. And naturally, because you are who you are – you there, with your appealing, stocky build and your good hair and short beard – you have done a good job. I’d almost think that you were local by your choice of aloha shirt. But of course you’re not.

You nod and smile. You know.

And you, with your plucked eyebrows - I know you do drag when you’re not in that uniform. The way you pull the curtain back using only two fingers and never, ever using your pinky. I know. And the rest of you, with the proper gait but just a bit too much lift in your step. I can recognize which one of you said, “Welcome aboard United flight 72 to San Francisco,” without even hearing you speak in person. And, sir, when you do speak to someone face to face, you still sound like Bea Arthur doing voice over for a Discovery Channel special.

Such a shame you couldn’t get the video system running properly. The movie was cute.

I don’t mind watching you. The guy who reads while biting his tongue. The tongue that just hangs from between his teeth, thoughtlessly resting between his lips. Or the guy who gets a nicotine fit and has to dip to calm his nerves.

I even enjoy it. But I’d give it all up to spend the day at home, play the game, work in the yard, and go to bed together tonight. I won’t do those things for a month, and I’m not happy about it, but it’ll be OK, and I’ll do those things again soon.

Dante's Business Trip

Like last year, I am being shipped off again to work the summer far away from home. It’s something I am loath to do, and very resistant to.

And I have found that although most people seem to agree that business travel is not something they’re excited about, I am of an apparently small minority who would prefer none at all, regardless of the destination. In mentioning the locales to which I may be sent, I have had “Oooh!” and “Awesome!” responses when all I can think of is how disruptive the travel is. How it keeps me away from a routine that is important to me and a man who is even more so.

Still, this year’s options are admittedly more favorable than last year’s.

Utah was smoggy, hot, and a cultural desert. I spent nearly two months in a concrete warehouse by day and a concrete hotel by night. It was odd to think of Utah Valley as the Promised Land for God’s Chosen People. It made me wonder what those people had done wrong to have that be their reward. That question remains unanswered, but my guess is that it’s their reward for being interminably dull.

This year, I may find myself in another desert, but not the cultural kind. Oregon and California are high on the list of probable destinations, and I’m relieved.

So although this sort of extended trip away from home is a Danteian nightmare for me, it is more palatable than it has been in the past. Rather than being sent to the Seventh Circle’s inner ring, for example, I’m merely headed for the Second or Third Circle. It seems reasonable to me, as I am not violent, but I love food, drink, and men. So I’m not thrilled with it, but at least it makes sense.

Still, who wouldn’t rather spend a summer in even the first sphere of Paradiso?

Hell

When I came to work today I must have gotten off the elevator at Hell instead of floor 21.

In this conservative and stuffy financial office, there are children. Two, I believe, though it's hard to tell since they move so quickly and make so much noise relative to their size. They are running, screaming, and throwing things.

I was on the phone with a client, and one of them crash-landed itself noisily under my desk. Trying very hard to focus on what the person on the other end of the line was saying, I plugged my finger into my other ear and trained my brain on his words. But the shrieks of evil laughter and glee from under my desk would not be ignored. Another adult - perhaps the one responsible for delivering these little devils to our quiet workplace - appeared behind me pleading "come out, he's on the phone" in hushed tones. She had to say it more than twice. I never looked at her, for I could not have looked kindly.

This is not my work. It looks like work, but it's been inhabited by child-sized demons and we do not have those at my work. They would exist in Hell, but not here.

I think I may get my things and go back to the elevator.

Lament of The Resource Node

All work and no play makes Chef a very dull boy, indeed.

I have worked every single day since January 3rd, only once working less than 10 hrs. Most days have been 13 to 15 hour days. I’m tired and bored.

My dishes aren’t done, my laundry isn’t washed, and my trash just moves from point to point in the house, rather than being taken out. My poor dog has resorted to self-petting.

But I labor on. I iron my shirt and go to work, skip dinner, and eat quickly before bed. I read reports that I am working more than 451 of the 475 Resource Nodes currently operating within my Western Profit Unit. I am unimpressed.

But I am certainly not flattered or honored, either. Pshaw.

Nor am I resentful. I, the worker, am disassociated from my work. I do it because I must, not because I care or despite the fact that I hate it. I am an efficient Resource Node. I provide high quality output.

And it will end, and I will have a brief respite. Then perhaps I will be redistributed to where Resource Nodes are in short supply.

I am tired, though. Tired of being a Resource Node. Tired of being so busy that I’m bored. My mother once said that “bored people are boring.”

At least it’s not as bad as last year.

Home Work

We here in the Kitchen are home owners and home makers. To achieve our goals associated with those titles we become armchair botanists, technophiles, lay zoologists, hobbyist designers, craftsmen, and procrastinators. In short, we are distracted and lazy.

As such, our great home remodel project of 2005 has taken significantly longer than the three months that Head Chef once said it would take. Oh, and there are excuses. Some of our excuses are even reasons. But not all.

Despite our collective attention deficits and lethargy, Head Chef and I are motivated by nothing more effectively than the looming threat of visitors. We look forward to their arrival and the beach time we will take with them and the meals we will share. But we also stand on the steps to our little home in Pauoa and look around us with the eyes of a third person. And we shake our heads and think, “oh fuck.”

So this weekend, I eschewed my workplace responsibilities and we worked on the house. We floored the remainder of the hallway and the entire master bedroom. We cleaned. We investigated local options for kitchen cabinetry and planned the bathroom remodels. And then we worked in the yard.

If you know us even casually enough to have visited our home only once, you know our love for gardening. The front garden, now only 6 months old, is already reaching epic status. The gingers are getting taller, the brugmansia is blooming, and the Rangoon creeper already hides the stone wall. The ensete banana threatens to rule the world.

We dug in to our elbows, getting filthy and doing what is arguably one of my favorite things about gardening… discovery. From beneath four feet of shiny fern foliage, Head Chef produced a long-forgotten vanda sporting two spikes of shiny purple blossoms. Anthuriums that had tipped over were rooted, thriving, and blooming. And our new trees had fresh new growth popping out at the branch tips.

We planted a new torch ginger - one of my favorites - on the side of the house, and stood back to admire it. Now only 6 feet tall, it will one day reach as much as 15, with bright red flowers the size of large apples atop sturdy stalks jutting from the ground.

We do this – I do this, and I stand back and see what is done, and I feel full. I see the new floor in the bedroom from atop the living room stairs and the thriving garden and all the little improvements that are made over time, and I witness proof that things do get better, and that we have a hand in that. I see a sort of time lapse progression in my mind, from then till now, and I project outward just a bit – a skill that Head Chef teaches me each day – and I know that this is good. That this life is worth it, and that all the tediousness and doubt is made moot by these moments of doing this with him.

Working In Mililani

Listening to the online radio as I work through lunch, I hear the DJ say, “And for our fifth caller, we have a free lunch from Maruju Market. A pound and a half of fresh poké from Maruju Market - what a nice lunch.”

Poké. Heh. Try finding that anywhere else.

Also at this client site, I overhear things such as:

“We havin one lunchtime meeting, ya?”
“Try hand me da kine?”
“Oh, he no stay here no mo. He wen stay in Ku`unani’s ol’ cube.”

Makes working here worth it, to watch a Vice President of a major bank talk story Hawai`ian style. Well, that, and the drive across the island under bright skies dotted with white puffy clouds. And getting out of the car to be bathed in the fragrance of Eucalytpis leaves recently pelted by rain... And... And... And...

EDIT: And... on the drive home, there were not one, but two rainbows arching over the freeway on the way into town.

Shaving Off The Weekend

I can always tell what kind of weekend I’ve had when I shave for work on Monday.

It’s the simplest kind of litmus test. If my beard has grown a lot, I was most likely very stressed. If it didn’t grow much at all, I was unusually comfortable with my world.

This morning, the stubble on my neck and cheeks was extraordinarily long. And I know why. Stability was threatened. A perfect (“perfect perfect,” we agreed with one another over the phone) opportunity presented itself along with the threat of ethical complications and terrible loss. The conflict of the two wracked my nerves all weekend.

Just the very thought of realizing this goal in such an excellent (“perfect perfect”) manner was so tantalizing that when I told Head Chef about it, he donned an uncharacteristic project management role to make sure I followed up. He became so businesslike about it that it made me want to tell him, “Hey, quitit, that’s my job!”

But always, in the recesses of my consciousness, I knew of the risk inherent in even investigating this possibility. And then, in the course of a third call late Friday, I found myself face-to-face with it. The ethical challenge, the potential of loss. Of actually making things worse, not better. So much worse that I actually experienced a moment of panic as I itemized the horrors that could befall my little family if my delicate proposition failed. Head Chef witnessed my abject terror, which humbled me.

But he was all business, and so were others who knew of my plight. And so I repeated their reassurances to myself over and over again to calm my nerves. It worked, much of the time. Yet, left alone without the distractions of an imaginary world, an immediate remodeling challenge, or a pet-management task, my breathing became constricted. That knot of nausea welled in my chest. While mindlessly painting baseboard molding in the garage, my thoughts turned to worries of imminent doom, and I nearly had to sit down.

I walked through Home Depot and drank with friends like a man who’d received a Diagnosis. Playing the social games and going through the motions, behaving appropriately but never taking the fullness of my thoughts off the delicate concern that would face me Monday.

So when I shaved this morning, I took note of what my weekend of anxiety had wrought and made a decision. At 8:47 am, I made a fourth call. I was logical and clear, and we talked about how disappointing it was that this chance was not to be explored.

It’s not that I hate shaving. In fact, I rather like it when my beard looks full. But the anxiety necessary to achieve the affect is just not worth it.

Golf Opposition

I do not wish to like golf. Golf is expensive, time-consuming, and fussy. It’s a tool of the insider’s old-boy network and it has been co-opted by the rest of the world so that they can feel like they’re in on the joke. Or, at least, to enable them to get an angle on the deal.

It’s popular because it’s a business skill used in lieu of physical combat. I would much rather engage in some old-fashioned wrestling match than dress up, spend all that money, and swing a stick at a ball. At least then you could justify the competitive tempers that have to be suppressed for the civility of the golf course.

But I did have a good time. Still, if it’s all the same to anyone, I’d rather not like golf on principle alone.

Sodomite Companies Want Your Children!

The lovely, witty, dirty-minded Wonkette posted today regarding an article at the World Net Daily website about corporate America’s pro-homosexual cuddling.

The World Net Daily is what is increasingly called wingnut, or extreme right-wing. For those of you who wish to know what the opposite of that would be, that’s moonbat. I have no idea what moonbat comes from or what it implies, but wingnut seems pretty obvious.

Although I don’t recommend anyone else do this, I actually took at look at their related reader poll and a handful of linked articles.

As I said, I don’t recommend it for the faint of heart. I am a calloused, jaded homosexual and reading vitriol about people like myself doesn’t shock or dismay me the way it might someone who were simply a friend of equality, say. Think of this as your “Do not attempt. Professional driver on closed course” warning.

One thing I noticed, however, was the repeated use of the term pro-homosexual. Now don’t get me wrong, I definitely advocate for my fellow sexual outlaws. I loves me my homo homies. However, I wouldn’t even describe myself as pro-homosexual, let alone America’s Fortune 100.

To me, pro-homosexual is a lot like the term you used to hear for reproductive choice advocates. Back when, they were “pro-abortion.” But saying someone is pro-abortion is like saying they advocate for abortion in all instances of pregnancy, which is clearly absurd and very misleading.

Similarly, I would expect a company that takes a pro-homosexual stance to be holding classes on homosexuality to teach people the upside of being gay, and discouraging heterosexuality. They could perhaps have a same-sex mentoring program where women taught each other proper cunnilingus techniques, and gag reflex suppression sessions during lunchtime for the boys. They might feature an article in their company newsletter that talks about the diseases you can get from heterosexual intercourse and the horrors of child bearing/rearing, noting that people who date same sex partners need not worry their pretty little heads.

And then, of course, they could throw separate company parties for women and men. The boys would be treated to a white-party styled dance, and they could give out ecstacy and condoms and make sure there’s a back room lit by a dim red light. I don’t know what would be the equivalent for lesbians. Maybe an Indigo Girls concert.

Now that’s what I call a pro-homosexual company. Down with all the trappings of heterosexuality, up with sodomites!

No, instead all we have are these rich firms who simply acknowledge that homosexuals work for them, and promise not to treat them any differently than straights. Although that’s really quite kind of them, it’s hardly what I would call pro-homosexual.

But oh well.

For Grounding

We stayed up late last night entertaining a houseguest, and I’m horribly jet-lagged and possibly hung-over. I can’t tell which, or in what ratio.

My return to Honolulu has not been as triumphant and celebratory as I had imagined. On the contrary, I’ve felt disconnected and like I don’t belong here. My home doesn’t feel like home, welcomes have been scant and from people I needed them from the least.

It’s like I have been granted this overwhelming feeling of dread.

But I just saw something that grounded me for a fleeting moment. And you won’t believe what it was. A nametag. Yeah. Of a co-worker I really like and admire. She wasn’t even there, and I think that if she had been the effect wouldn’t have been as profound.

For that moment I felt like my head cleared, and I stopped walking and smiled. “Oh, wow,” I thought to myself. “Her.”

And then I started walking again, and these familiar but unwanted feelings returned.

What I’m Waiting For

I was sent off to Utah for 2 months, and I was furious. But I calmed down, as I do, and I got used to the idea that it was really just like an excruciatingly long workweek. With one day weekends every 11 days.

For a while, I tried to have a life here. I tried to make the best of the pitiful hotel gym facilities and to be interested in going out to dinner with these strangers that have become my co-castaways. But finally, there was no denying it. The gym is just unworkable and my fellow victims here in exile are not my friends, no matter how much I try. And it’s a shame, really, because they’re not my kind of people and they don’t seem to like one another very much, either.

So I found myself playing my video game, setting goals and being excited for the next milestone. And I knew the whole time that I was really just escaping. Just biding my time till I was permitted to return home.

Isn’t that funny? I’m an adult, but I have to ask for permission to go home.

But I’ve reached my in-game goal and I’m stymied on what to do with myself. I’m waiting to go home, to run a house and work in a yard. To have a dog stand with her nose less than an inch from mine as I intone her name in a sacred chant of praise.

Diary Entry From Above The Pacific

So, I've been away from home for about three weeks now, but I got to go home long enough to have a taste. And it was a good taste, too.

I arrived in Honolulu on Friday night, and was a bit sleepy. On Saturday, Head Chef and I slept in, but of course sleeping in for me is a bit different than it is for him. I slept till 6am. What can I say, I'm on Mountain time. That was sleeping in for me. :)

I had some computery things I wanted to do, and my Head Chef was still tired when he got up. It was still 7:00 and Fred, the contractor we're using to work on the house, wasn't due for another hour, so I upgraded the computer in the living room and Head Chef hung out and napped next to me on the couch with Enzo and Bella and Popoki. I ran the upgrades and then even played the game for a little while during our wait for Fred.

I got some decent pointers from Head Chef on how to play even better, as well as my 25th level. Yay. I like Mormodes, the Shaman. He's a cool dude, and he's powerful when forced to do things on his own. But he's still got a soft side and needs his druid, Kapok, because he just can't do it all himself. Who can, you know?

Fred arrived about an hour late, so we got him set up and then headed out to the beach. We weren't sure which beach we would go to, but we ended up deciding to go Waimanalo beach (say it: Why man ah low). We spent an hour or two on the beach, napping and talking. I enjoyed the sun and Head Chef's presence, and I let my hand rest against his side as we lay there silently.

The beach in Waimanalo is perfect. Wide and bright with just enough surf and never very many people. I'm always nervous about getting in the water there, but I didn't see any jelly fish washed up on the shore, so we went in and of course it was fantastic. The waves there are very fun and once you're in, the water temperature is really comfortable. We bobbed in the waves for a while and watched a turbo prop plane in the distance silently performing aerial acrobatics. And then as we were climbing out of the water, we spotted not one, but two jellies on the beach. But we didn't get stung, so that's what counts, right?

When we got home a bit after 1:00pm, Fred had made a lot of progress on hanging the new door, but he had to completely rebuild the entire frame because the old door and frame were custom but awful. It had been a non-trivial job, for sure, but it looked good. Head Chef and I hung out and helped a little, talked with Fred about the changes he was making, and then surfed the web looking for a new doorbell ringer and thinking about design for the kitchen.

When Fred got the door hung, it was time to tear the kitchen cabinets off the wall he's going to remove for us, so we helped him to hold stuff and move the cabinet pieces outside. Head Chef was really excited. You could see the energy in his eyes in the way one can... As more and more cabinetry disappeared, he was starting to see the kitchen finished in his mind's eye, and his imagination wouldn't let him leave the room for a while. Fred had a couple of beers while he chatted with Head Chef about other plans they're going to work on. Finishing the flooring, replacing the stairs, and adding windows.

Head Chef's plan is to have it done when I get back. Knowing him, I'll be very impressed.

I busied myself with getting ready for dinner and making sure that everything was in place for my departure the next morning. And then Cindy showed up looking for the package I had brought back for her from Utah. She's my co-worker's wife, and she was nothing like I had pictured her. It was kindof awkward and so we hurriedly exchanged our items. Her husband's package went with her, and the shirt I was to bring back to Utah with me went into my carry-on bag for the next day.

Finally, Grillardin showed up and it was time to go to dinner. We had chosen to go to Gyu Kaku, a fun Japanese barbecue place that we knew Grillardin hadn't been to and would love. She's new to the island and needs to be shown around a bit, so we took her out for an "E komo mai" dinner, and naturally, she loved it. I leaned forward and reminded Head Chef, "Boulanger's going to LOVE this place," and he heartily agreed. Everything was delicious, including the yakidori dessert. I was content.

But I had a plan, and we couldn't linger to savor the sensation of full bellies. So we headed down into Waikiki to catch the movie on the beach. They never play old classics like "Some Like It Hot," so I was kindof excited to check it out. We got a great area in front of the big screen, and from observation of others, learned a new technique for digging into the sand and getting comfortable. We drank pre-mixed cocktails while the sun was setting. The Honolulu Jazz All-Stars performed magnificently from the movie screen stage, and we agreed that everything was better when enjoyed in the light of a Honolulu sunset.

When darkness set and the movie started, Head Chef nudged me out of sleep. I was still on mountain time, and it was nearly midnight according to my body clock. I watched Jack Lemmon for a while before my eyes closed and Head Chef woke me again. And after a third time, Grillardin volunteered that she was tired, too, so we gathered our empties and our beach mat and headed for the car. I was all yawns and when Grillardin dropped us off, I had only enough energy to stack my items near my bag and curl up next to Head Chef.

He wanted to chat as we lay in bed, but I must've fallen asleep in mid-sentence at some point. He said something that woke me, and I opened my eyes and he smiled before turning off the light. He has such a nice smile.

Now it's Sunday, and I'm back on the plane on my way to San Francisco to catch my connecting flight to Salt Lake City. All my friends from the area - and many from Honolulu, Portland, Seattle, Texas, and elsewhere - are finishing a week-long camping trip/binge in Guerneville, not far from The City. I've heard from many of them, and it sounds like they're having a good time. Head Chef and I will plan well ahead, and we'll meet them there next year.

Head Chef and Fred are going to tear down the wall today and finish some touch-up work that needs to be done on the new front door - which looks beautiful, by the way. I begged Head Chef to send me pictures, but he wants the new lofted second level to be a surprise for me. Already, the suspense is killing me.

I won't arrive in Salt Lake until almost 8:00pm. My co-worker, The Butcher Commis, has said he'll pick me up, so I won't have to take a taxi down to Provo. Hopefully the air quality will be better in Utah Valley this week. I'm supposed to have a better hotel room for this next stay, too. Much more like the condos in Waikiki.

In the meantime, I've been listening to the new Coldplay album while I work on the plane. I only have a few albums on the computer to listen to, but this one is a gem. I might never have heard it if it weren't for my friend Tournant, who shared with me one of the two finest tracks on the album. And now I listen to the track and think of the people I'm so far away from, and think about how... I don't know - accurate - it is.

Observations

After having worked here for several weeks, I have come to the conclusion that there are extraterrestrials among us. Or even that, more precisely, I am among aliens.

At first, this idea was based only on an amusing little observation. I noticed that although I work in a large cubicle farm where they raise a hundred auditors and tax associates at a time, the bathroom was nearly always empty. Empty in an unused sort of way, almost as though I were the only person who actually had to do the things one does in there.

And so I wondered to myself how it was the other 99 people avoided going to the restroom. I witnessed them eating, so I knew that if their bodies obeyed the same laws of physics that mine does, they had to eliminate waste, too. And yet the bathroom is always empty. How or when were they performing this biological function? How could they avoid the inevitable urge after a venti triple-shot eggnog latte?

Then I began to notice that although these waste-retentive organisms work long days five and six days a week, they all look phenomenal. Although they clearly have no time in their lives for the luxury of exercise or a day spa, their skin is flawless and their bodies are trim.

But not only are their bodies slender, they also look remarkably young. Yes, it’s true many among them claim to be only twenty-plus earth years old, but even the more seasoned members of their species retain a youthfulness that defies the aging effects of years of
stressful working conditions. Just look at how a typical president ages during the course of his tenure to see what I mean. In only four years, a sprightly man emerges aged and tired, exhausted from his ordeal.

But these beings do not show the wear of decades of twelve-hour days under terrible pressure to perform. They look youthful and vigorous. And yet they seem so human, full of the same quirks and many, if not all, of the frailties of humanity.

They may return to their dens in the darkness of night to excrete their purified wastes from wide pores lining their spines. The may watch our solitary moon throughout their sleepless nights, reading audit work papers or communicating with their home world through
exotic miniaturized instruments implanted inside their deeply-folding brains.

But I wonder if they were always this way, and why they would hire a human like me.