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: “We need to fatten you up, you skinny thang.” It was lunch break starring salad, no croutons. “Who ya trying to look like, Calista Flockheart or sumpin?’ They laughed and told jokes as they sauntered along the boulevard, past a sax player who was blowing some Sonny Rollins. And it struck the two 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 the fruitfly worked and worked and slaved for a demoralizing boss who was constantly nagging the poor rep about her many inadequacies, always trying to goad, prod and berate this sweet lady 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. He surely wanted to help out his new, skinny friend. She slowly shook her ringlets. “There HAS to be a better way,” she said. At the traffic light, he shook his jowls. “Absolutely,” he grinned back. He knew that, by Jupiter, together they were going to find a better utopia.