Today reminds me of the Friday of Dink's funeral. Dink died young, after believing and living the motto, "take care of your luxuries and your necessities will take care of themselves." His wife had many happy memories because that philosophy worked well for them.
After the ceremony, I went to my office, on the fourth floor of a building in downtown Baltimore. I stepped from the elevator and felt as if I'd entered a twilight zone. Sunlight from the windows around the periphery cast shadows on an eerie quiet. Someone was saving money on ceiling lighting. From each desk glowed a blank computer screen. I searched for an explanation. In the biggest corner office, a pile of shredded paper formed a pyramid in the middle of a large conference table. Closer inspection revealed "Pay," "to the order," ".00," "First," "Group," and unintelligible partial squiggles. Friday normally was payday. Not this time.
I had arrived too late for another funeral. I mourned alone, until the elevator bell and a security guard yelled, "What are you doing here?" He suggested I gather my things and leave.
"What then?" asks Virginia.
I complied. It was 1985 and I was lucky. I found my next job within a couple months.
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