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22. A photo of your town. 10/30/04. First view of the Chicago skyline in a year.

What a moment. Returning to Chicago after a year abroad (New Jersey.) Hastily snapped photo of the skyline as I pilot the truck containing my belongings homeward. It felt amazing and surreal and humbling to come back. When I made the decision to leave, I actually uttered the words, “There’s nothing for me here.” Thoughtless words, those. There’s everything for me here. Except for Yuengling. That’s just out east.

Back up to a respectable daily count, which means I can actually share some numbers. We’re at 38,740 and climbing. That puts us at 77%. The month is 73% done. Still in the running.

Of course, the writing is weird. The story has completely gone out the window, so I am going back to old scenes and adding one those funny ridiculous stories that I love having characters tell.

“I did hook up with Susan though,” I continued.

“Oh yeah!” Paul said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Susan was a former sales assistant who had left Cola about a week after I started. We flirted at her going-away party and since I had not yet had enough time to display my complete unsuitability as a mate to everyone through my unprofessional behavior, my petulant attitude, and my bad personal grooming, Susan had considered me fresh meat, viable and available, and had allowed me to escort her home.

I smiled, fondly thinking back to that night. “That was fun.”

“Wait a second,” Paul said. “That’s not what you told me.”

“What?”

“Come on, Art, ‘fess up. There are no secrets or lies in the Cubicle of Truth.”

“I thought we had stopped calling it that,” I said. We had been going back and forth on the official cubicle name. Much work time had been devoted to the very important debtate. “I thought we had settled upon Plagueville.”

“Regardless of the name, Arthur, the fact remains. Once a Cubicle of Truth, always a Cubicle of Truth. As long as you reside here, you shall be bound by its laws.”

“Crap.”

“So, tell the audience what happened, Arthur.”

“Alright,” I started, already warming to the story. My people love telling stories. It is in my blood and it doesn’t matter if the story shows me in a good light or not. In fact, the worse off I come across in a story, the more sympathetic (or just pathetic) I appear. Or so I thought. It was a Jewish thing. I think. “So Susan and I are hanging out at her party in the break room, and we’re both pretty tipsy….” Alcohol was normally forbidden at all company events, whether Cola-sponsored or not, but Susan was incredibly resourceful. Her brother was Cola’s legal counsel and had found numerous loopholes in the company alcohol policy. Ever since then, as long as the event took place on an odd-numbered day, within three days of a major holiday (of any nation, creed, or culture) and was not taking place near computers or heavy machinery, we could get away with drinking booze on site. It was known as the Susan Initiative, and we thanked her for it weekly. “So I said, ‘Would you like to come back to my cubicle?’ and she said, ‘Is that what you packaging kids call it these days?’ And of course, I was confused by that because what else does anybody call a cubicle. I mean, a cubicle is a cubicle, right? I suppose some people call them ‘cubes’ but that’s really more of an abbreviation than anything else.”

I could tell that I was losing my audience. Therese looked like she might fall asleep, Kate looked even less engaged than ever and even Paul, who normally listened with rapt attention to any story that I might tell seemed uninterested. He had turned back to his computer, and while I knew he was listening, I could tell from the back of his head that he was growing bored.

“Anyhow. I realize you guys are all busy so I’ll just cut to the chase. After a bit of witty repartee, a little back and forth, we cut out of here and head over to her place. Now I don’t know if you know this, but you’re about to: Susan has a dog.”

“We know,” Paul groaned. Of course they knew. We all knew. Susan talked about nothing but her dog, pretty much all day every day. I had only known her a week, but already I had been shown pictures of her dog and told stories about her dog a dozen times. I have a pretty strict “Don’t tell me about your dog unless he’s on fire or he cured cancer” policy, but, being new in town, and eager to make friends, I had listened intently.