I, journeyman, await the judgment of the guild. Am I master or fool?
The dogs prowl the perimeter. I pour a glass of rye. I check my watch again: how many hours removed is the west coast? If I’m sitting in a stationary building on Thursday in spring during a waxing moon, am I two hours ahead or three? Are we saving the daylight now, or were we doing it last winter? What is the relative velocity of California?
Rye again.
* * *
My skill is zed.
Our guild has no formal body, only a loose association of masters. There is no crest or seal or fundraising jamboree. If I pass my journeymanship I will gain no additional letters after my name. There is no recognition but trust.
But that’s worth something. Because zed is hot, my friend, very very hot. Zed is putting gas in my car, and oatmeal in my children. Zed pays the tax man. Zed helps me get ahead.
Why hasn’t my thigh rung? It’s almost nine.
They can put a man on Pandora but they can’t call me back on time.
I mean, shit.
