The Last Grapefruit La Croix

Too Long; Didn't Read

Here’s the short version: a company shut down, and every one of its 50 employees got either a job or a severance package, except for one: me.&nbsp;<br>&nbsp;<br>I tend not to write about things that happen to me. What is there to write about? I just told you the story in 23 words. I prefer to write about slippery things that feel like fish or birds, things that you need a net and some cunning to catch. A story about something that simply happened? That feels so very bovine. You can put a bolt through its skull but there’s no hunt.&nbsp;<br>&nbsp;<br>But still I want to write about this. In its very solidity, its refusal to fly, there is something that stirs me. My mind lingers on glass-walled conference rooms, the orange cardboard packaging of boxed dinners, the repetition of certain phrases. It reminds me of this game I played as a kid. We called it Moss, for some reason, but you probably called it something else. It’s hide-and-go-seek in the dark, basically. You feel around, grab at someone’s ankle, slam your chin into a coffee table. The parents didn’t like us playing it. But the thrill of finding your way through the dark!