In many ways, the writer is provided a clearer exposition of human life—and especially strife—when he can sketch it in the form of a fiction rather than a flat recitation of fact.

In winter of 2000, after weathering the Y2K fiasco as grocers, an older coworker of mine, a man who I had but two things in common with, finally, after 5 years, had some words for me, even sat in his car and told me all about his "bidness" after we got off of work in the morning.

This meeting of the simian minds, one paleface 145-pound long-haired hoodrat and one "large and in charge" Bantu former share-crooper from Georgia twice his age, had two things in common: we had both dealt with Big Boy, the hyper-aggressive alpha-male ghetto banger from Washington D.C. who insisted on challenging us for masculine dominance on the night crew, and we both volunteered to do the hardest part of the "breakdown" when the order was sorted as a crew before individual clerks went to their own sections, which was stocking the water, in gallons and 2.5 gallon jugs, for the simple, observable fact, that Lisa, the cashier whose hips almost touched each register when she bent over to work the candy totes, was only twenty feet away...

I have outlined Flood's story so much as he told me, leaving decade-long gaps where he had nothing to say, and intend to finish it this weekend and to be posting again on Monday, November 16.

Thanks for your patience.