"He's going to come in today."
"I thought it was next Tuesday," Martin rests his hand on the water cooler. He holds his cup under the spigot.
"Judy said today. Maybe he's anxious to get started."
Martin pinches the blue handle, flips it up. Water trickles in. Importantly flowing bubbles ripple through the upside down barrel of water. One of the air pockets snakes past Martin's hand. He sighs, removes his hand from the cooler and dumps his cup of water into the sink.
"Nobody is anxious to get started."
"Maybe the better you get, the better it gets. Like skiing."
"Maybe he needs money."
"Yeah."
"Let's go back."
"Yeah," Tom, less than enthused, knocks on the cooler, coaxing one more little bubble to the surface of the jug.

I can't say for sure that this is what happened. I'm piecing it together based on how Tom and Martin spent every morning on Block 4. I wasn't there this morning because, as those two pointed out, I was not supposed to return until the next Tuesday.

But I came today instead. Not for any of the reasons Tom and Martin mentioned. I came sooner than planned simply because I sobered up sooner than planned. It wasn't the sort of job you could go to drunk. I've had a lot of those jobs. Jobs where you deal with people or... or creativity. This was a sober job that I returned to today. I expected to wear the heavy, lazy jacket of alcohol for another week before taking it off in a favor of a warm, itchy cover of prosperity. But yesterday I found myself alarmingly sober and with nothing to do. So I called Allen and asked if I could start early. What did he care? I could come in tomorrow. Pathetic, really, him trying to contain his excitement but still bouncing in his chair like an excitable child.

So here I am in my sad little office with Martin leaning over me and tapping my computer's monitor. His ragged fingers leave slimy streaks up and down the screen.
"You ever used this program before?" As if he didn't know.
"I did this job for two years a while ago."
"Right. Well, we've added a lot of fields lately."
"Well, I know the basics pretty well so I should be able to catch up."
"Right."
This bastard knows exactly who I was. They've all been talking about for me for a few weeks. Gallons of water have poured out of that cooler while they talk about my past exploits. This is a job for temps. Sober temps. Nobody can do this job for long. Which means that if I was here for two years, and I was, then I was the elder statesman of data entry. Which means I know what I was doing better than anyone else here. And Tom and Martin and all the other temps who wander through Block 4 know that. The talk about me like young filmmakers talk about Fellini or young politicians revere the memory of Lincoln. They also know that adding a few more fields is not going to change anything.

I sometimes wonder if children who swim like a fish grow up to drink like a fish. Studies should be done, maybe have been done, documenting what happened to children whose mothers tell them they swim like fish. I would wager alcoholism is surprisingly high in those kids.
Maybe we do everything like a fish, those of us who started out as fish. Fetuses have a fishiness about them.
I am coding as I have these thoughts. Entering data at alarming speeds. Like a fish. Code like a fish? Is that a saying?
I am getting drunk again.

I have come to the water cooler to get a drink. Sober myself. Steady my nerves. I drink three cups -- conical, paper cups -- of water as soon as I arrive. A crowd gathers.
"Leave some for the fishes," a wise guy calls out.
They are here to get a look at me. See the man who held a temporary job for two years, coded like a fish and then slipped out the back door one day to drink for a year. And is now back.
I am still drunk. I cannot say with any certainty why I thought I wasn't. I hope I do not reason like a fish now, too. If I do not start to sober up after a few more conical cups of water I must go home.
"So," Tom asks me, "you're some kind of super-coder, huh? Enter, like, a ton of data a minute."
"Yeah. Yeah, about a ton a minute. But, you want to see something really impressive, you should watch me drink."
"Well, the way you're putting that water away...."
The banality of Tom is sobering.
"I should get back," I say.
Martin peeks out from behind Tom and says, "First day back. Have to get back into the grind." He is sympathetic.
"It's just like I never left."
"There is that," Martin agreeably agrees. "It's like riding a bike."
"Yep," I say. "Just like a fish riding a bike."

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