I can see you out of my back window. You sit there stuffing little slips of paper containing inane predictions about people’s futures into fortune cookies. I know you never pause to read any of them. No time. They pay you piece rate, huh?
Sometimes, you thoughtfully scratch that mole on your cheek. At other times you dig your nose. Do what else you may, your concentration never wavers. You go on stuffing fortune cookies. They pay you piece rate, huh?
Every once in a while, nature calls, and you must leave your cookie-stuffing for a precious few seconds. How convenient for you that the restroom is just across. Often have I observed you dash through that puke-green door, black at the jamb through years of use, doubtless by other focused cookie stuffers before you. Many a time have I wished I had a stopwatch so I could clock the rapidity of your return. I am almost certain it says “Lavar su mano” somewhere behind that swinging piece of plywood, but I wouldn’t bet a nickel you actually stopped to wash your hands. You just don’t have the time. They pay you piece rate, huh?
You have been bad. Trust me, I know! You can’t see me coz my window is dark, but I saw what you did to that new girl who started last week. It’s amazing, though, how you can still go on stuffing cookies with one hand, while the other is up her skirt. Your concentration is remarkable!
I don’t know whom I envy more. You, or the diners at China Garden.
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