Home > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

By Chris Vitiello
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An employee with the unfortunate name of Pitts placed a folder before me.  I scanned it quickly.

“Now, look here, Pitts.  This information is incorrect.”

He raised his shoulders slightly and shot me a look of idiotic bafflement.

“That’s all I know.  That’s all I know is what is in that folder.”

I desired to whip him right then but I kept calm.

“As I noted earlier in the day, I am in need of the carbon service forms.  There are men going into the field today.”

He shrugged his shoulders again and said nothing.

I waited for this Pitts in the lunchroom.  He secured a plastic tray (still moist from the washers) and began moving slowly down the line.  He picked out a gelatin dish (small nuts floated at its quaking surface) and a softball-sized fish ball.  He slid over to the register.

“No, no, Pitts.  Allow me.”  Much to his surprise, I paid for the meal.

He wandered over to a table filled with other pasty dullards.  I sat beside him.  It was worrying him, I could tell.

“Tell me Pitts,” I said.  “What do you do for recreation?”

His nerves were beginning to take over.  The fork which he had used to skillfully pierce the fish ball was now shaking slightly in his hand.

“I…I have a little bench in the basement…”

“Ah, a bench,” I noted loudly, imparting as much ersatz good will into my voice as possible.  “A bench.  And what sort of hobby do you engage in on this bench of yours, Pitts?”


“No, no, Pitts.  Surely, you must have a number of grand activities in progress or planned or perhaps even completed.  Are there shelving units full of your work, Pitts?”

He was shaking full on now.

“Come now Pitts.  I am a mere philistine when it comes to such matters.  Inform me.”

“I…understand…what will happen,” he said.

I stood up.

“Very good, Pitts.  Leave your tray there.”

He followed me outside to a weedy yard where he was whipped mercilessly.

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