It’s friday afternoon or morning. I can’t tell because I only work two days, five times a month.
I’m on my daily three hour jog around the Eastern Prom trail. My knees don’t hurt this time, because I had kale and Greek yogurt at my last lunch.
In a fit of caprice, I find myself gliding down the newly constructed Bayside trail on the well-oiled engine of my perfect knees. On Anderson Street, I spot a new brewery that opened up this morning. My knees and their caprice instinctively carry me towards it. The sign reads “Five Guys Diners and Dives” and I laugh, even though no one is there to hear me. I decide to go inside to sample one of their ales, or lagers. I can’t recall which is the good one.
But inside, instead of seeing a group of motivated young bearded men serving well-hopped alcohol, I see only my friends and family, sitting at a hand-crafted wooden table. Everyone is on only one side of the table, like in the famous painting. But this isn’t necessary, because I know what the backs of my friends and family look like. They frame the astonishing and disorienting visage of Steven Handscomb, who is seated immaculately at the center of the far side of the table.
“Have a seat on your side of the table,” He requests. There is plenty of room to slide from side to side on one of our locally-sourced rolling chairs.” Without hesitation, I take a seat at the table opposite of my friends, family, and the most enigmatic wood sprite in the great state of Portland, Maine, Steven Handscomb. Glasses and mountains of bagels crowd the table suddenly. I say ‘suddenly’ only to denote an amount of time that cannot be measured by celestial durations.
Steven Handscomb officiates what will be the most important ceremony of this trimester. The sweat that I earned on my jog beads up around the erect hairs of my neck. Steven continues to proclaim his wishes.
“Drink of this wine and Moxie cocktail. This is my blood. Take these bagels from a restaurant called 158. They are my butt. Eat of my butt; drink of blood: and you shall find eternal relief from dry rot in your terrible apartments. Only through the Lord, my Aunt, may you find this immanent spirit.”
Globbing the contents of my plate and goblet hard, I look up only to focus on the next words that come from Handscomb’s mouth. “I got a start-up idea,” he exclaims with thunderous vivacity. “I want to sell you German-engineered, hand baked Toblerones for $400 dollars. Not these new mass produced toblerones with less chocolate that you see at generic stores, but artisanal, hand-chopped, hyper-local, artisanal Toblerone chocolate mountains.”
Everyone seated, including your truly, closes their mouths out of politeness: drooling is an abomination to Steven Handscomb, I deduce intuitively.