I think I'm experiencing pregnancy sympathy hormones in honor of Taufling. I'm a weeper by nature, but it's even worse these days. This in combination with working late is never, ever a good thing. It's like beer before liquor. Staying here past office hours always plunges me into an awful state: I'm tired, I'm trapped, and I'm putting my college degree to work assembling three-ring binders. My freedom is dependent upon the inefficiency of other people. If you don't drive home in tears after eighteen hours of this, you're in need of a need of a near-death experience or a bender or both.

The phones are set on night ring and it echoes through the empty offices as Orlando sleeps below. I stream talks shows through tinny computer speakers and all of a sudden I'm back in Cape Canaveral, driving island to mainland and back after midnight, selling roses in bars to cover the full cost of three different prescriptions. A couple hours ago I was flipping through a pile of resumes, and tears welled up when my eye caught the word "Kentucky." I've never lived there, but my parents' home faces it across the Ohio River. I cried for something I never knew; a Churchill Downs afternoon or a flying run through fall leaves. Then I took a closer look at the resume. The word I had been crying over was "Keenhouse." "Kentucky" had never been there at all.

November 20, 2003

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