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A man wearing all black carries an oversized jar of green olives through the lobby. He will fall. The crowd will react by jumping back from the splash, even the ones who are on the other side of the room. There will be a long hush. The man will be horrified, worried sick that he will be terminated for his folly. His family is struggling; his mother and baby are sick. His wife is consistently disappointed in him. He cannot hold a job because he says or does something that stems from his anxiety of not being able to provide for his family. He manifests it. He is on new medication for his depression. He is generally good and means well but he fails. He will walk home because the car stopped working and he will get mugged or harassed for his small stature and clumsy walk. His wife will be waiting in the doorway with her arms crossed, with that look that burns his insides and drives him to drink alcohol he cannot afford. The cycle will continue until someone sees him as who he truly is: helpful–albeit a trifle awkward and accident-prone–and in desperate need to fit in. He will sweat in interviews when they ask him why he is no longer at his past employment, but he will push through it and smile, providing examples of a time he solved a problem. Beginning, middle, and end. A cohesive story for a position he may not be able to hold on to through the week.
He does not drop the olives. They make it to the bar, and the bartender thanks him with a pat on the shoulder that drops lower than the other. He sheepishly nods and fades away, surviving another day.