Imaginary Keith and I are pitching together today, seeing if we can’t hold down the fort while we wait for Economic Recovery to arrive with the supplies. Spring is in the air, but it smells like stale memories.
“How’s it going over there?” I’m in charge of printing checks, and it hasn’t gone well at all. Two hours wasted, trying to figure out why one machine won’t talk to another. But I’ve kept this from Imaginary Keith. No need to alarm the troops.
“I still need that checkbook,” I remind him. “At least until we see Economic Recovery’s face peak over that front gate.” She’ll know what to do about the printer.
“I’m still looking,” Imaginary Keith says. “The checkbook seems to have lost itself.”
The best thing about living in the Electronic Age, as opposed to say, the start of the Iron Age, is that no one actually comes sneaking up to try pounding down your gate. Two men can easily manage a doomed fort.
“The checkbook is on the desk,” I tell my friend. “I saw it there just the other day.”
“Yea, that’s what I was thinking. But where’s the desk?”
“Maybe we should just go patrol the perimeter.”
“Good idea.”