Au Revoir, Elizabeth

All afternoon I though there was lightning in the sky outside. It turns out that one of my ceiling lights is beginning to die – a process that begins with an occasional flicker, advances to a nausea-inducing strobe and then to utter darkness only after which building maintenance may replace the bulb.

There is a damp patch in the carpet where Betsy’s refrigerator, evidently not house-broken, has left it’s defrosting. I am now a foster caregiver to this battered little appliance. I will keep an eye on it until Betsy finds another position, either here or at another institution.

This is Betsy’s last day. The four of us made what may be our final coffee run this morning at 10:00. In about 90 minutes, many of us will leave the floor for a nearby establishment where her exit interview will be conducted. This, of course, is not the real farewell, only another excuse for her many fellow employees to cadge a free drink or two or three out of our employer.

The real farewell was yesterday. The four of us, Tom, Patrick, Betsy and I, climbed into a cab and directed the hack to Taylor Street’s “Little Italy” where we dined at a restaurant whose name I cannot remember. Although a farewell, the mood was festive, made even more so by two bottles of wine, the second of which was a 2001 Tedeschi Amarone della Valpollicella Classico. It is a simply marvelous red, and I understand that Sam’s Club carries it for $50 a bottle. I must commend Tom on his restraint; having given up wine for Lent he permitted only Diet Coke with lime to elevate his mood. The food was excellent; of particular note were the calamari, the duck-stuffed ravioli and the wild boar with wide noodles. There was much laughing and camaraderie, all in all a fitting send off for our coffee bud. Needless to say the rest of the afternoon was somewhat of a blur.

The little white refrigerator makes an annoying high-pitched whine that can be heard only by dogs and anyone sitting in my office chair. I may have to find a closet in which to store it until Betsy reclaims it.