a hunter-gatherer living in a post-agrarian world START HERE . . .
Don’t think I got that job.
The office was a little cinder block box at the back of an office park right next to the train tracks.
The inside smelled like wet dog.
Mrs. Johnson, Winnie, (or the person I assumed was Mrs. Johnson since she never introduced herself) looked like Popeye in drag and the first words out of her mouth were, “Damn, how old are you?”
Don’t think I want that job.
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