The old gay dude professed to being a seeker, an alchemist. She, in turn, admitted to being a bit of a fruit fly. He jibed: ‘Who are ya, Calista Flockheart or sumpin?’ It was lunch break starring salad, no croutons. “We need to fatten you up, you skinny thang.” They laughed and told jokes as they sauntered along the boulevard, past a sax player who was blowing his thang. And it struck these new buddies that none of the low-lifes and regulars out on the street seemed nearly as stressed out as the average corporate yuppie! Certainly, not nearly as tense as the marketing VP at Floor Land, back a few blocks, where this woman worked and worked and worked for a demoralizing boss, who was constantly nagging the poor rep about her many inadequacies, always trying to goad, prod and berate this sweet fruit fly into increasing productivity. Using the worst, counter-productive logic, of course… It was not the first time that the old alchemist had witnessed such disastrous mismanagement. At the traffic light, he shook his jowls. He surely wanted to help out his new, skinny friend. She slowly shook her ringlets. “There HAS to be a better way,” she said. “Absolutely,” he grinned back. He knew that, by Jupiter, together they were going to find utopia.

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