Overheard, in a basement in Delaware:
"Man, this is tiring."
"I know, but we've got to do it. Every twelve hours, they say."
"I wish they'd come up with a more modern version. Whatever happened to technology, ya know?"
"Yeah, I know. But they say the old ways are the best, and it's never failed them before, so the word is, they're never going to upgrade."
"My arms are wearing out though. And the edges are sharper than they seem. You never complain, how do you manage it?"
"Me? Oh, well, I could say it's because I've built up callouses from playing guitar, but it would be a lie. Haven't you noticed? When it's my turn, I wear these gloves."
"Oh, that makes sense. Good idea. I'll pick some up for tomorrow. Am I about done yet?"
"Nope. You know the rules. Eight minutes of winding, every twelve hours. Or they can see him start to get stuck."
"Yeah. And he did seem to stammer a couple times today, didn't he?"
"Yup. Lucky they came up with that story about how he stuttered when he was a kid. That was brilliant. Explains away a million things."
"I guess it's not that bad a job, it's just weird, you know? Like, you can't tell your kids what you do for a living. I just tell the kids I'm an assistant, and leave it at that. If they ask for any details, I change the subject."
"Yeah, me too. The old joke about playing piano at a whorehouse stopped working when the kids were old enough to realize I don't actually know how to play piano."
"Hey, are we done yet?"
"Yup, you can take out the key and put it back in the briefcase."
"Till tomorrow morning then, pal. See ya!"
"Yup, good night! Drive safely!"
...end of transmission.
John F Di Leo
