Joseph Lin was still the boss at work, and I sought his permission to borrow the truck parked in the warehouse to get home, though I thought it might not be worth the trouble, having to bring it back in the morning. His complexion was worse than I remember, and he wiped away the sweat or secretions while he explained to me that Patrick Stewart was retiring not only from his career in film and television, but his honorary position at the company. (Reminds me of the celebrity endorsement Apex purchased from Terry Bradshaw.) My earlier scenario found me free from my usual state of transportation-disabled, collecting my things after a class, fitting one backpack into another so that I’d only have two to carry. The girl that had sat beside me, who had curly brown hair like the actress who played Elaine’s counterpart on Jerry’s failed pilot, told me her father was picking her up, but that he was fussy about her sitting in his car, even the way she handled its door. I told her I’d take her home instead and not complain, “I’ll even open it for you,” I offered—the conversation felt real, I recall our exchange clearly; she asked me for my name, which despite a certain extent of intimacy we somehow hadn’t gotten to sharing, to which she replied, “The Jay?” “I guess I am,” I flustered, and our relationship having withstood my reputation, bravely requested her number. She smiled and nodded, and as I fumbled for a writing instrument in one of the nylon pockets, I would learn she was Marissa.
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