Christmas parties at work. Always held during the day. I lift my head from my desk, shuffle to the lunch room, punch out.

No booze, no music. A potluck. This close to Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen. The owner of the company is a well-known philanthropist and a lesser-known miser.

The meal's adequate. Warm soda floating in the ice of a wet cooler. Outside, the rain falls. The ground's as soggy as the bread slices set beside the ranch dressing.

Merry Christmas. Back to work. I see Caesar in the hall and thank him for his salad.