Meet Bryce: He’s a professional and looks to be adapting nicely to being home where he can skip the stairwell chain-smokathon, and lay in the sun in the driveway of his modest late 70s brick home. The bikini bottoms are a disturbing touch, but I don't ask. He wears a headset (which I've never really been figured out), considers squirrels an enemy of the neighborhood, and doesn't seem opposed to engaging even school children as they pass, insisting that the entire pandemic is overblown and that they should be in school instead of creating noise in his vicinity. While he’s become a staple at his law firm, it’s obvious that he is essentially the "tambourine player" of the band, causing him to nervously check his email constantly, knowing he’s never more than a step away at any time from that dreaded “we need to talk” subject line cc’ing all the partners. In his diligence, he focuses on his current task of studying the “many will enter, few will win” verbiage of sweep stakes disclaimers for possible improved state and federal compliance. But even with his efforts, he can’t help but drift off into wondering when and how we became such a weak society, blaming everything from Bill Clinton’s 8 years to Julia Childs, once even stopping me to rant, accusing Scorpion and Subzero of being WHO agents for wearing masks as far back as the early ‘90s.
I don't inquire about the vast amounts of Hawaiian Tropic tanning lotion (which was discontinued decades ago for health reasons)that I deliver on a weekly basis, or the numerous ebay boxes of old Happy Meal figurines that he's recently begun collecting. Truthfully even if I did muster the courage to pull Bryce away from his sixth Mai Tai of the day, I’d barely be able to hear over the blasting Nickelback coming from the garage. So I nod politely, hand him the items, and move on.
He's gonna make it. The squirrels are a different story.