In 1955 we sat on the outside lunch benches of F.S. key, someone's father had told them about George Orwells 1984. But we weren't talking about the deeper ramifications of Orwell, we were imagining going to work in flying saucers and all the magically inventions that were coming to a modern society. And why shouldn't we? Who ever heard of such a demonic thought as down-sizing. Our fins were only to get larger as far as we could see.
Flash forward to Eddie and Zims at midnight. Eddie had birth defects, and the last I can remember seeing him was at the front of my house. "I sweep your porch for a nickel", he said. I'd appreciate that Eddie, I said. And so he did. I was in the money and gave him two fifty cent pieces and said good job, Eddie. This ritual continued on for many years, usually on Sunday's.
The real 1984 had arrived and I was just finishing my statewide sweep of banks. "A Zimburger, chocolate malt and apple pie was on my mind. Hi Skipper, I hear from the corner, how you been. It was Eddie. The Mason's had operated on his legs so he no longer dragged his foot and his voice was clear as a bell, no longer labored. We stayed and visited till closing time. He had a good job and was doing well.
And I thought.
Black the pessimist.