FirefliesHe was trying to cram strawberries into a cup and cursing under his breath. I didnt understand the problem until he looked up and saw me. They want a fresh fruit flurry with all the fruit!The fact that he was foreign separated him into something to be sympathized with before understood as a person; like a child or an Alzheimer patient.Next time, Im going to put a lemon in it! Because thats a fruit! I looked at him, amused more than anything. Or a tomato I said. He smiled.Here he was the same as the rest of them. All flown in from Poland or Russia or Belarus, even though nobody could tell the difference; just hated them for taking jobs that nobody wanted anyway. I saw them all; sweating behind the glass windows, riding their bikes awkwardly along the bypass, working overtime between three jobs until returning to their nature;like fireflies in the dayl
ReformationWe found them behind the old factory in St. George-boxes full of blank metal chips the size of quarters. They worked as quarters too, we soon discovered,and began stuffing machines with them to fillour pockets with gumballs, jawbreakers, trinkets, sodas;imagine our bliss! Whoever it was that collected those machines moneyfound the counterfeits, though, and the police were notified.When we saw the threatening flyers they postedwe disposed of our remaining treasure,and returned to sitting on front porchesto spend the remainder of our summerin the miserable shade.