Thursday, November 15, 2018

B. B. at work needed help with his résumé. He gathered me and two others in a room within a café and described to us what he wanted the first paragraph to express. I scanned the original he’d given us and found that he was from Canada and had trained Air Force pilots. Later he asked me for money. I told him I was very reluctant to make loans. I warned him not to be a fuckface; he had to pay it back. Eventually I asked him how much he wanted. Twenty thousand dollars, he said. I’ll give you forty, I replied, and he accepted with a sigh of disappointment. Then I continued on to school, annoyed that he’d made me an hour late—here it was 9:30 already. I didn’t even know what class I’d missed. Was it possible I had free period to start the day, and it wouldn’t matter? Not likely. I tried to remember where my locker was. I thought I found it, but couldn’t remember the combination. Somehow the lock opened anyway and the locker opened. It was full of locks.