steve

my manager's name is steve. you remember steve, don't you? he's the one who was in tears over my keg stacking during the jazz fest.

well, quite often he gets rammy. he'll go running around the pub, making himself more worked up than he was before feeding his ulcer with a cup of coffee every few minutes. i keep telling him he should lay off the caffeine lest it stunt his growth. he keeps telling me that at 27 five foot five is as tall as he gets. then i'll make a joke about being a leprechaun, he'll call me a yank and then run circles round the pub.

a wise man once told me that a wise man once told him that he never repeats a step he's taken. he takes his time and makes sure to bring with him the tools he needs. i don't think that was meant to be a metaphor or anything, but i still like to think about it sometimes and how it, you know, like, makes thoughts think.

while my thoughts were thinking about whether i was to share this bit of knowledge with him they all generally decided that it is better not to share advice that was not asked for. this, also, came from a wise man i know. at least, that is what they would have concluded had steve not interrupted my day dream by asking why the sink was over flowing and the pint i was pulling had filled the floor. he handed me a coffee and a bit of paper that said getyourheadinthegame. i smiled and failed. i tried again and failed again.

steve was looking at me.

i pictured steve in a green suit with a little green hat and a little bowl of lucky charms and smiled. he shook his head, took a bite of the charms and walked away.