![]() ![]() I was apparent forty or so, and I thought about bridling at being called son, but I looked into his eyes and decided that he had enough realtime that he could call me son anytime he wanted. “You get any closer, son, and we’re going to have to get a pre-nup.” Some duration into my foray, he cocked his head at me and raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. I was fighting a coral-slow battle for a stool at the scratched bar, inching my way closer every time the press of bodies shifted, and he had one of the few seats, surrounded by a litter of cigarette junk and empties, clearly encamped. We hooked up at the Grad Students’ Union – the GSU, or Gazoo for those who knew – on a busy Friday night, spring-ish. ![]() ![]() I was in the middle of my Chem thesis, my fourth Doctorate, and he was taking a break from Saving the World, chilling on campus in Toronto and core-dumping for some poor Anthro major. He was a rangy cowpoke, apparent 25 or so, all rawhide squint-lines and sunburned neck, boots worn thin and infinitely comfortable. I never thought I’d live to see the day when Keep A-Movin’ Dan would decide to deadhead until the heat death of the Universe.ĭan was in his second or third blush of youth when I first met him, sometime late-XXI. I lived long enough to see the cure for death to see the rise of the Bitchun Society, to learn ten languages to compose three symphonies to realize my boyhood dream of taking up residence in Disney World to see the death of the workplace and of work. ![]()
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