Spent the weekend trying not to be filled with confusion and rage about work.  Leigh was back on Friday, and she invited me to her apartment on Carmine Street.  It’s a tiny 3 bedroom place, and she and her southern belle-mates pay $1650 each for a tiny room that fits a bed and a dresser.  They barely have a kitchen/living room, but they have a roof deck. They all have heavily accessorized beds with coordinated comforters, massive euro shams and bolster pillows.  Did you catch my mention that it was “time to make a duvet cover”, the other post? I gotta say, I did a damn fine job making a reversible cover out of two floral tapestries from Urban Outfitters, each side beautifully contrasting the other in shades of olive, charcoal, light and dark rose.  I have four standard pillows, two in pink pillow cases and two in my trusty Ralph Lauren leopard print pillow cases. They class up this two-door room in a way I hadn’t imagined, and my Technics receiver is looking pretty cool too. Who needs a roof deck, when you’ve got this flat + practically a view of Studio B?

Tomorrow I’m going to sell some fall clothes at Beacon’s Closet, and several of my ebay auctions are ending.  Time for some new looks. Falling into fall. Something’s gotta give, amirite?

All week I have been walking on eggshells, keeping my head down and avoiding all Cash and Ranch, keeping quiet, not knowing what I may do wrong again and what loud consequences there may be.

Leigh is mostly on the road with her superiors, so I have just been hiding in my row, keeping my head down and doing the work, just like The Others.

What has this world come to?

Transcribed from home.

Well, I was all in a mood of good morning, live and learn, jerks be gone, out with the old in with the new when BARRY, yes Barry, my desk mate, strolls past our row toward the vault with the Simons Jewel Co briefcase in hand, swinging it forward and back, a jaunt in his step.

I gave him the side eye.  Why would he be putting the briefcase back in the vault at only 9:30 in the morning?

My line rings

“This is—“ I hear yelling and commotion.

“Hi- come to the Executive Lunch Room,” Cash says distractedly and I hear a Ranch utter “Where is she?” In the back room.  The line hangs up.

I cringe and head toward the Executive Lunch Room.

I walk into an argument amongst both Ranches and Cash, entering the room as Ranch Jr declares, “The jewelry looked like shit, that’s why they didn’t buy it.”  I bristle.

“Charli, have a seat,” Cash motions.  “Did you put the jewelry away last night?”

“Yes,” I respond.

“And where did you put it?”

“In the vault.”

“From now on you gotta put it away nice, ok gal?  You got that?  You understand?” Ranch Sr demanded to me, in seething sarcasm.

“I’m sorry, did I—?”

“Charli, we had a very important sales meeting here at 8:30 this morning, a meeting that Cash and I arranged on behalf of Diggy, last night.  A very important meeting, and it did not go well.  So next time you put the jewelry away, do me a favor, okay?  Take a look at it before you put it away?  Okay? Make sure it looks nice?  Because some of us, some of us are busy making connections with people out at clubs during the week for the advancement of this business.  And if a meeting comes up, the jewelry needs to look good.  You got that?”

“Yes,” I responded in confusion.

“Alright get outta here,” Ranch Sr ordered.

I went back to my desk and sat there, shaken, my nerves up.

Transcribed from home.

And from the depths of gmail emerge correspondence.

“Correspondence?” you say, “I’ve never heard of that.”

Would you like to see an example of what happens when you decide to email a male romantic prospect and casually ask him what he’s been up to in the 3 weeks since you have last seen each other?  And then he responds with a cryptic remark about a dinner?  If so, read on!

Hi CHARLI!

I’m good. Dinner was great, but loooooong. Dorothy had this gift

certificate to some fancy restaurant on an old Rockefeller estate? We

had to take a commuter train? And it’s hard to get reservations so

dinner wasn’t until 9:30? And we almost missed our commuter train

back, which was at 12:10? And then the F was all fucked up? And I got

home around 2? But the meal was admittedly pretty great.

Then I woke up and was very tired and hung over so I went back to

sleep for 20 minutes and I’m good now! Good job me! I got to work

late, but it’s Friday so no one was here anyway and so that worked out

well.

Fall has sprung!

L.B.

“Who,” might you ask, “is Dorothy?”

I WANTED TO KNOW TOO!  AND WHICH FANCY RESTAURANT?

I don’t remember the name exactly. Blue Stone or something?

But yes, Dorothy, who recently broke off her engagement to Diamond

Knights, has her eyes set on me and she knows how to win my heart!

DRINKS!

I ate a slice of pizza and now I am eating a six-inch sub.

I do believe L.B. has here in straight up admitted to me that he went on a date with another gal, another DOROTHY, who is capable of wooing him in a very fancy manner!

I’m f*cking done with this jokester.  I just changed his name in my phone to DO NOT L.B.

***

4:29 p.m.

I pull out my middle desk drawer about six inches, pulling my phone from its place in the pencil compartment and reach my hands in further to the part of the drawer that is deeper and open my phone within the drawer.  I text Blake.

<Hey.  Can you go to drinks after work?>

I flip it closed and place it back in its pencil compartment spot.  

I periodically open my drawer a few inches, watching for the ring around the LED display to light up red, indicating that I have a new message.

Finally after 30 minutes I see the glow.

<Yep.  Daddy’s?  Happy hour is till 7.  I leave at 6.>

<Sweet, c u there.>

I slide the drawer closed and look around.

Ms. Sher is gone for the day, Barry has his tunnel vision stare in line with The Others, and Leigh is in the Executive Area doing tagging.  Cash and Ranches Junior and Senior have been holed up in the Executive Lunch Room all afternoon. I click over to my gmail and hit print on L.B.’s email and rise from my chair to walk to the printer at the end of Cash’s row.  I swipe my surreptitious personal print-outs and pivot, about to head back to my desk.

“What’s doin’, Chahli Girl?” Ranch Sr’s trademark greeting.  

“Hello,” I nod and smile.

“I’m bushed, sweetheart, see ya tomorrow.”  I nod and smile again and head back to my desk.  5:01 p.m. on a Tuesday. It seems Ranch Sr has stayed late.

I fold my contraband email and slide it into my purse, located in the depths of my middle drawer.  I look longingly at my phone and decide it would be pointless to go to Daddy’s without inviting a few other gals.  I text Krissie.

<Meet me at Daddy’s at 6:15> She writes back almost instantaneously.

<Already here with Mike I.>

5:03 p.m.  27 more minutes to go.  I settle into my own tunnel vision stare and begin typing on here, periodically clicking back and forth to Alchemy and my email to give the impression that i am chugging along industriously.

5:15 p.m. My line rings. Eye roll.

“This is Charli.”

“No, no, no, you have to put the diamond IN the ‘O’. That’s how you do a grand slam.  Hello?”

“This is Charli,” I say, doing my best to hide my annoyance from Ranch Jr.

“Do you know how to scan?”

“Yes.”

“Grrreat.  I need you to scan something for me.  Come to the Executive Lunch Room.”

I rise and walk past several rows of desks before knocking softly on the closed swinging doors.

“She is not getting anything from me.  I’ll tell you that much.  Hey Charls. I need you to scan this check and mail it out for me tonight.  It needs to be in today’s mail.”

Ranch Jr hands me a check made out to Speyer Properties for $5400.00.  ‘Rent October 2006 Apt 7E’ is written in the memo. “How much are stamps these days?  I don’t think I have 39 cents. And oh, it has to be postmarked tonight?  Charli, do you know what a postmark is?”  Ranch is alternating between speaking to me, Cash and to someone on his BlackBerry.

“I have change and I can just take it down to the Post Office in Rockefeller Center on my way out.”

“Is this girl a team player or WHAT?”

5:18 p.m.

I am sliding into my chair about to start methodically shutting down all of the programs I have running when my line rings.

“Charls.  Junior and I have to meet Brian Leung at DIME.  Can you come get the line to put it in the vault overnight?”

“Yep.”

I go back to the Executive Lunch Room as the office slowly starts to perk in tiny gestures of the end of the day.  Those coworkers who are past official retirement age start to slowly file out, seemingly in descending age order, dressing in their jackets and assembling their pocketbooks, cardigans, and plastic bonnets.  I bet I can still get out of here by 5:30, I think to myself, longing to brandish my printed email in anger with Krissie over a two-for-one well drink. Cash is reading an issue of Complex magazine with his feet kicked up on a toile ottoman.  Ranch Jr. Is sitting in the midst of a spread of mall jeweler newspaper flyers, an issue of Rolling Stone, the New York Post, and dozens of printed emails, typing on his Blackberry.  Both men do not look up when I enter the room.

“Hi, um, you wanted me to take the line?”

“Is Brian doing bottle service?  Diggy is asking me. Cash, do you know?”

“He bettter be,” Cash chuckles.

“Yeah, he better be.  That’s what I should write to Diggy, right?  Huhuh, he better be,” I see Ranch Jr type the words with his thumbs.  “You think I sound street?”

“Sorry, but, you wanted me to take the line?  The vault closes in two minutes.”

“Oh, yeah, here,” Cash lifts the black leather briefcase with one hand and pumps it twice in the air before handing it to me.  I take it with two hands and carry it like a lunch tray back to the vault, which is just around the corner from my desk. I place the suitcase on the middle shelf under its designator, a piece of masking tape adhered to the wall, on which Cash wrote S.J.C. Sales Line in graffiti style letters.

I step out of the vault just as the operations manager who opens and closes arrives to do his evening duty.

“Good night,” I say.

“Night,” he responds, slowly walking the 12 inch thick metal door toward its frame.

I stop at my desk to quickly X out of my programs and sign out of my gmail.  I log off, scooping my large brown leather purse from the drawer in one simultaneous motion.  I slip my phone into an outer pocket lined in silver studs and zip it closed with a large fringed leather tassel and head toward the security line.

I wait for the elevator on the 28th floor and when it opens, Cash and Ranch Jr are standing there, having exited from the Executive Elevator on the 29th floor.

“Well, hello!  I like that bag,” Cash greets me.

“Thanks,” I stand quietly while Ranch Jr’s eyes are glued to his Blackberry.

I stand silently in impatience as we descend 28 floors.  I hate leaving at the same time as any Ranch. I’m always afraid they are going to ask me to go back and do something.

Finally, we arrive on the lobby level.  Ranch Jr pushes past Cash and I, eyes glued to his precious Blackberry.  “Cash, this way, gotta get my Rover from the garage on 48th,” he mutters, not looking up from his phone.  I turn in the opposite direction to descend a golden stairwell to the subterranean post office. I slip away unnoticed.

6:45 p.m. Daddy’s Bar

Blake and I discovered that we had been on the same L train without knowing it when we find each other at the Graham Avenue stop exit.

“Ok, today sucked,” she starts off.

“I’m sure I can top it.”

“We all got our internet taken away because Maria opened myspace while we were in a meeting, and she couldn’t get this insane WWF song to stop playing.”

“OOOOooooooooohhh that sucks.  But, well, I guess since you didn’t have the internet, you didn’t read my blog.”

“Nope, couldn’t have if I tried.”

“WELL, L.B. Is dating SOMEONE ELSE.”

“What??”

“Yeah!  I printed the proof!”

“Charls, nooooo….  What did he say?”

“That some chick named DOROTHY took him to some fancy dinner on a Rockefeller estate and that she knows the way to his heart!  Which is apparently, DRINKS! I haven’t even gotten wasted with this guy!”

“Let me see this email.”

“Don’t worry, I printed it.”  I rustle in my bag and pull out the printed email, handing it to Blake and she starts to read as we are walking down Graham Avenue.

“What the…?” Blake shakes her head in disbelief, as we enter the cozy, dim light of Daddy’s.  I see Krissie sitting at a small corner table with Mike Industrial and wave. Blake and I stop at the bar and order two whiskey and ginger ales, and join them in the corner.

“Yaaaaaayyyy, Charli and Blake!!” Krissie greets us as we sit down.  “What’s up?”

“I’m mad.  Le Bloggeur is dating some fancy chick.  Read!” I slam the email down on the wooden table.

Krissie and Mike Industrial read over the email correspondence.

“Wait, so which fool of yours is this?” Mike asks me.

“Somebody I thought I was kind of dating, but just confirmed that he has in fact blown me off.”

“Man, that’s pretty blunt!”

“Um, yeah!  He basically just spelled out what I needed to know.”

“Well, at least now you know he’s a TURD!” Krissie chimes in with her typical succinct assessment.  “Time to meet someone else! Or just join me and Mike I.’s band! Inflict your pain on an audience. Oooh!  Write that down, Mike, that’s a good lyric.”

“It’s fine, guys, we weren’t even going out, I have just never encountered someone so blatant about seeing someone else…”

Mike I. nearly does a spit take.  “Bahahahahahaha!”

“What?” I recoil.

“Taste of your own medicine, much?  2004 much?” He taunts, referring to a time when we had both arrived in North Brooklyn and had a briefly torrid interaction.

“Oh stop,” I said, casting him a knowing scowl.  Our long running platonic friendship had wavered briefly, but earlier this year we met up, had it out and drunkenly, platonically instituted a pact of maturity and agreeing to disagree for the sake of our mutual friends.  I frequently find myself in the position to quickly and easily shut Mike I. Down with my ease at maturity.

After a pause Blake broke the silence.

“Who wants a veggie dog?”

“Meee!!!” “I want two!” We all cracked up laughing and toasted well drinks and the conversation started to flow.  I was catching snippets of “ok, seriously, go home, do yourself a favor and just listen only to Wipers. You can thank me later,” and “they all TURDS” when I thought of something Leigh had relayed one day at lunch, sitting outside of Cafe Metro.

“Mama Vickie always says, ‘put ‘em in the freezer’,” she mused. “Write their name, crumple it into a ball, and put it in the freezer.”  I slowly pulled the print out from the table and placed it into my purse on my lap. I folded it in half, vertically, and began shredding it inside of my bag, then rolling the shreds into cylinders.  The night had worn on and the group had expanded and divided, amoeba-like throughout the bar. I linked arms with Blake.

“Let’s go out back.” We headed toward the 1970s grandma style wooden door, a little aged white curtain covering its window.  Out on the suburban-style wooden deck, I led Blake to a round white plastic lawn table that had a candle in a glass lantern resting on it, next to a black plastic ashtray.  I took out my pack of Parliament lights and took out the rolled up email cylinders. I lit my cigarette then lit the cylinders in the ashtray.

“Problem solved,” I said to Blake with a wink, and she rubbed her hands together, pretending like she was getting warm by the fire.  “Mike I. is going to think I’m even crazier now,” I cracked up, taking a drag of my cigarette. The tiny flame burned out and I stubbed the embers out with the end of my cigarette.

Finally, it is October.

I don’t mean to harp, but help, gals.  Help. L.B. is straight up gone. L00king Back, (ugh, his initials are everywhere) it has now been officially three weekends since I’ve heard from L.B.

Should I email him?

I just don’t understand.

I’ve been buying a lot of records and spending a lot of time in my room.  Staying off the computer. Arranging things. Cutting. Sewing. Working on looks.  Making things the way I want them to be. Where I can, at least.

Time to make a duvet cover.

What’s that lull of silence radiating from Charli’s secret online journal, you ask?  Has she been cozied up in Carroll Gardens, too busy canoodling to write?

WRONG.

She has been running back and forth between her desk and the Executive Lunch Room, setting and re-setting and setting and re-setting up a black leather flip up briefcase filled with stainless steel bracelets, rings, pendants and chains.

Gahhhh, I cannot work!  I can’t do work. All I wanna do is hang out with my friends at Studio B.

Survey: Should I Contact L.B.?

Back story: Still no response to 4 text messages sent post- 3:34 a.m. this past Sunday morning.  2 days! But who’s counting?

 

***

4:41 p.m.

Okaaaaaaayyyyy, well.  That was special! Special along the lines of the friendship between Ms. Sher and Brian Leung.

Sometimes I am so busy after one of a many Ranch Jr. impromptu meetings that I do not have time to recap them.  I really would like to… He’s full of so many phrases… “Home run”, “Superstar”, “Agreed”, “Is she hungry?”, really, they ought to be transcribed.

But today’s takes the cake.

Today at Simons Jewel Co., we received . . .

. . .  drumroll please . . .

The Oral History of Hiphop!  Recited by . . . Ranch Jr.!

Oh, dear audience, how I wish you were there.

“We are here, making stainless steel jewelry for men, because people, well, the world, relate to this culture.  Run DMC had the first crossover hit with Aerosmith, “Walk This Way”.  And from that DIggy, Diggy Simons, who is the namesake of this company, started his record label.  I mean, they were selling records, awwwwlllll over New York City.  Awll over the country.  People were break dancing in the street, you had your boom boxes, and people loved this music.  And these people came from the streets.  Of Brooklyn.  And Harlem. And Queens.  And the Bronx. And some of them….  Some of them did do some time. Some were drug dealers.  Some were what you’d call… hustlers. But they were always on the streets, so that’s how the word spread.  Now, not everyone in hip hop was a pimp or a drug dealer, and that is not what we are promoting. But real things did happen.  Did you know. . . 50 Cent was shot . . . nine times? And look at 2Pac.  He got shot by Suge Knight.  Now that was an east coast / west coast thing, and again, that is not…  what we are promoting with this jewelry per se.  [Charli’s note: gotta love the “per se”]  But there are people out there who do relate to this culture and that is what Simons Jewel Co. is all about.  And thanks to the hard work of myself, Dad, and Cash, who unfortunately is not here today, this bling is gonna be in every mall in America!”

I look over and Ranch Sr. is beaming.  “Ain’t that right, Sonny Boy?” he says, cleaning his 3 carat diamond pinky ring against the leg of his tan dress pants and breaking into applause.  “How ‘bout a round for Sonny Boy?”

Everyone looks around and claps limply.

“Thanks, thanks, everybody, no need, no need.  I didn’t do this myself! I did this with the help of Dad.  Oh and you! And all of you. Remember- there is no ‘I’ in ‘team’.”

Everyone looks around.  That seemed to be the ‘closer’.  We sat awkwardly.

“That’s it, everybody, you can go back to your desks.”

HA ha hahahaha HA HA HA what a night!

Man.

Well, a gaggle of gals kicked it in the kitchen of Blake et moi.  Krissie, Sophi, Mercedes, Beatrice, Maria, Blake and myself.  We gabbed and gabbed, sipping vino, talking A.P.C. jeans and discovering our thick web of connections.  When we went next door (literally next door!!  You could see our kitchen window from the party’s bathroom window!), !shock upon shocks!, it was the Philly DJ crew from Transit!  Yes, the same Transit evening where Blake, Maria and I were the brunette babe crew with Lester in tow.  Only last night, we were in a small second floor room, white walls, tile floor. The occasional white cube provided a leaning place or purse rest.  A smoke machine filled the air, and Alexandra appeared, as promised, from a blend of blue and green light.

“Heyyyyy girls…..’

“It’s all the girls!” I yelled, feeling festive.

“I see…..,” Alexandra made a cat-pawing motion.  “What’s up ladies, hehehe….”

The beat was pulsing, and our crew dispersed, rhythmically.  A few wandered off toward the makeshift bar, a heavy plastic portable merch table, stocked with a jug of Georgi vodka, a jug of Evan Williams whiskey, and various mixers in two liter bottles.  Sophi, Maria, and I jumped into the beat right away. I was swaying and raising my shoulders to the beat, when I turned and saw Shea’s chin-length black hair. I could see dark eyes and shaggy brown hair with gray wisps behind him….  Gerard.

I gave them both the ‘You…? You…!’ with my eyes and brows and added a wink for fun.

“Charliiiiiii!!!” They clobbered me with hugs and we fell into the beat.

“Charli!  What’s up girl??  How did you find out about this??” Gerard asked, tossing his head back in a laugh.

“From Alexandra….  I live next door, though!”

“Ohhh, you know Alexandra too?”

“Yo, I want some of her acid!” Shea surveyed the room.  “Wait, why is Krissie here? Charli, did you invite her?”

“No!  We were all at Daddy’s!  Alexandra invited everybody.”

“Well, I gotta go.”

With that, Shea turned to leave, and Gerard followed.  They passed Alexandra on the way out, and she followed them into the stairwell.  They lingered in conversation for a few moments.

I did not take any acid, but I entered my own blue-green world and had the time of my life, dancing.  Sophi and I swayed to the beat and bounced and jumped. Maria and Blake and I rejoiced in being reunited, bodies in motion.  The night seemed to go on forever (4-ever).

Around 4:45 a.m., things began to quiet down, and we all gathered outside.  The air was still warm, and the quiet of the block inclined everyone to linger, chatting.

“… No, but seriously, we threw this party tonight because the people who are opening Studio B were working out of here,” said my old Philly DJ acquaintance who threw the party.  “It’s opening tomorrow.”

“Wait, what’s Studio B?” Blake fluttered her eyelashes and gave a dreamy look.

“It’s a new club, right over there on Banker Street.”

I don’t know how or what drew me to this odd pocket of connectivity, but it’s alive, and I am surrounded by it.  Thinking back to last year, I was in a totally different place…. So happy to be me and free and surrounded by these people, these possibilities, these clubs next door.

F**K!

Forgive my profanity.

F**k!  Too many tequila.  I woke up to (count’em all) four, yes, four [4] sent text messages to L.B.

From,

Yours Truly

P.S. NO RESPONSE.

P.P.S. It was a series of Hey. Pary tmrw.  Sorry, I mean party tomrw.  Near me. Come.

AAAAAAHHHGGGGH.  I should not own a cell phone.  

Now, time to get the Yellow Tail, I guesssssss!!

“All I’m sayin’ is, if you want somethin’, you gotta go for it,” Krissie says to me, herding me toward Blake, who is narrowly wedged in between two burgundy vinyl bar stools with high backs. “If you wanna smooch that mon-syeurr again, just text him.  He’s French, right?”

“His dad is French.  And he has family there.  I think he speaks better French than me,” I say, as Blake grabs my elbow.

“Charli….  Don’t drunk dial,” she mutters in my ear.

“You know what?  This week, I decided, WHO CARES about the rules?  It all started last weekend when I booty called Shea.  I decided, ‘I wanna have sex tonight’. So I called his ass up and said, ‘HAY!  Git over here. Now.’ And he did! But…. now I haven’t heard from him all week.  Anyway, gimme another tequila. That shit was good.”

Blake and I make eye contact, silently acknowledging that our charming pal has had a bit too much to drink.

“Charrrrrrrrli? Krisssssssssssssie?  C’est vous, my beauties?”

We turn to see Alexandra, from last weekend, pushed up against Krissie’s left, as the bar’s crowd thickens behind her.

“Prrrr…”

We exchange warm, loving hellos, hugs and kisses, exclamations, as if we were long lost friends, as is the tendency in New York.

“There’s a party tomorrow,” Alexandra says, doing a Walk Like an Egyptian dance move with her fingers passing her eyes.  “117 Dobbin Street.”

“Wait, we live basically on Dobbin Street,” I say.  “Where??”

“Some warehouse….  My friend from Oregon is here, and she’s got aaaaaacccciiidddd,” she sing songs, ending with a belly laugh.

“Let’s go!!” Krissie concurs, and Alexandra flags the hobbit-like bartender.  I grab Blake’s elbow.

“Let’s have people over before,” I mutter in her ear, “but I’m not doing acid.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

3:34 a.m. Manhattan Avenue

Blake and I are stumbling down Meserole Avenue.

“I’m telling you, 117 Dobbin Street has to be close to our place.  Let’s see where it is,” I say, step-slipping in my 1970s burgundy Etienne Aigner boots.  

“But, wait, Charli, how was the haircut?  With L.B.?” Blake asks, repeating a question she’s asked me about five times earlier in the evening…. Each time I started to tell my story, I was interrupted by various bar happenings.

“I gave him a haircut in our kitchen,”

“I didn’t know you went to hair school…”

“I didn’t!”

“Then why did you cut his hair?”

“I’ve cut two people’s hair.  He kept talking about it…. So I offered..” I pause at a corner, looking up at a street sign.  “I wanted him to come over.”

“Oooooo….  good call…!”

“This.. ok, yeah that is Clifford Place, but this is Dobbin,”

Blake slows at a lamp post and grabs it with her left hand, swinging around it like a kid on a playground.  I look to my left and see a stretch of one story garages and toward us, a low two story building with two gray steel doors.

“What address is it?”

“117 Dobbin….” We cross the empty street diagonally, without looking.  The buildings are nondescript, facadeless, dark. I scan for numbers. The steel door on the left had small adhesive stickers just below the peephole, reflective black and white, the numbers on an angle.

“119, so…. is that it?” I say, guiding us to the other door.  We inspect it, see no numbers. Blake vigorously tests the knob.

“But so how was the haircut?”

“He said he liked it.  It actually looked good.   I dunno…. HERE WE ARE!!! Party at Our House TOMORROW!”

“YEaaaaahhhhh!!!!” Blake high fives me and we miss.  We try again and we miss again. “Meant to do that,” she mutters under her breath and we crack up laughing and stumble around the corner to our railroad home….