@Gary Thompson

6 stories · 0 likes · 0 views

Their stories

Night Shift

The Neon Watch

Working the night shift at our factory has a rhythm that you can only really understand once you have lived it for a while. Beneath the low, constant hum of the heavy machinery, we spend our hours manufacturing thousands of car parts every night while the rest of the world is tucked away in their beds, completely oblivious to our existence. I work at the very end of the assembly line, positioned at a station where the fluorescent lights seem to buzz louder than anywhere else. My job is to check every single gear for even the smallest mistake before it gets packed into a crate. It is repetitive, tedious work that requires an incredible amount of focus. If I happen to miss one bad gear, that tiny metal flaw could potentially break a transmission in a car miles away, and that thought stays in the back of my mind every time I pick up a piece. I have been doing this for years now, and in many ways, it has become my entire life. My day begins when most people are heading home for the evening. I wake up to the sound of neighborhood lawnmowers and the bright, jarring light of the afternoon sun. I do my chores, run my errands, and prepare my gear. By the time I am heading into the parking lot, the sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in colors that I rarely get to enjoy because I am already walking through the heavy steel doors. Living this way makes it incredibly hard to maintain friendships with people who work regular nine-to-five jobs. Our schedules are complete opposites. When they are waking up for breakfast, I am finally winding down, and when they are meeting for drinks on a night, I am just clocking in to start my shift. It is a lonely existence at times, but there is a strange, special bond among us night workers. We are all perpetually tired, we drink way too much bitter coffee out of stained mugs, and we all share a deep, burning hatred for the suffocating heat that pours off the machines during the hot summer months. Last month, that reality hit us harder than usual. It was 4:00 AM, the time of night when your body naturally wants to give up, when the conveyor belt suddenly shuddered and groaned, and then finally stopped moving entirely. The sudden silence that filled the floor was strange, heavy, and honestly a little bit scary. The machines were the heartbeat of this place, and without them, the factory felt like a giant, cold tomb. Our supervisor, Miller, did not waste a second. He was already shouting, his voice echoing off the concrete walls, telling us to get to work fixing it. We were all under a massive amount of pressure because every minute the line was down meant we were falling behind our quota. We scrambled to grab our tools, and for the next two hours, we worked harder than I have in a long time. We were covered in thick, black grease and sweat, our backs aching from crouching under the heavy metal frames. Every time someone passed a wrench, there were no jokes or small talk; we just worked with singular purpose. When the machine finally lurched back to life and the belt began to move again, there was no cheering or applause. We did not throw high-fives. We just looked at each other, gave a few tired, respectful nods, and went right back to our stations to resume the work. We knew we had saved the shift, and that was enough for us. That moment was what working at night is all about. You are a small, vital part of a team keeping things moving while the rest of the world sleeps. I have seen plenty of new people quit after barely a week. They cannot handle the isolation, and the toll it takes on their social lives is often too much. I get that, I really do. It is not for everyone. But I have grown to like the routine. There are no surprise meetings, no office drama, and no one checking over my shoulder to see if I am being productive. It is just me, the steady, rhythmic clicking of the gears, and the quiet pride of knowing I am doing a good job. Sometimes, during my break, I look out the small, dirty window of the breakroom at our cars sitting in the dark parking lot. I realize then how many of us are working together in the shadows, all of us connected by this same nocturnal life. We are the silent engine of the city. I do not know how long I will stay at this factory, or what the future might hold, but for now, I am happy. I enjoy the cool, crisp night air that hits my face on my breaks, and I love the empty road on my drive home in the morning when the sun is just starting to climb over the horizon. It is a simple life, sure, but it is the one I chose, and for me, that is enough.

@Gary Thompson

17 0

Wildest

The Corporate Espionage of the Communal Fridge

Let me tell you about the great fridge war that happened at my office. You hear people joke about the breakroom fridge being a battlefield, but I never thought I would actually live through something like this. It all started on a regular day. I made myself a turkey sandwich that morning, the good kind with extra cheese and the little pickles I like. I wrote my name on the bag with a black marker, put it in the office fridge, and went back to my desk feeling pretty good about lunch. Around noon, I walked into the breakroom, opened the fridge, and my bag was gone. Just gone. I stood there staring at the empty shelf like it was going to magically bring my sandwich back. At first I thought maybe I left it at home. But then it happened again the next day. And the day after that. Someone in this office was stealing my lunch, plain and simple, and they were not even being sneaky about it. The bag would just vanish, wrapper and all. I tried the normal stuff first. I wrote bigger name tags. I taped a note to the bag that said PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH, THIS IS GARY'S LUNCH. Nothing worked. Whoever this thief was, they did not care about notes or names. They just wanted free food, and I was tired of buying lunch out because someone kept eating mine. The breakroom at our office is nothing fancy. It has two round tables, a microwave that smells like burnt popcorn no matter how many times someone cleans it, and a fridge that hums louder than it should. People leave their lunches in there every day, trusting that nobody will touch them. That trust was broken, at least when it came to me. So I decided enough was enough. If notes would not work, I needed a real plan. That night at home, I made a sandwich that looked completely normal on the outside. Turkey, lettuce, tomato, the works. But inside, hidden between the layers, I loaded it with the spiciest hot sauce I could find at the store. I am talking about the kind of sauce that has a skull on the label as a warning. I wrapped it up nice and neat, just like always, wrote my name on the bag, and left it in the fridge the next morning like bait in a trap. Then I waited. Around eleven thirty, I heard it. A scream from the breakroom, loud enough that people at their desks looked up from their computers. I rushed over, trying not to smile too much, and there was a coworker, red in the face, well actually more like purple, grabbing carton after carton of milk from the fridge. He drank one, then another, then a third, then a fourth, gasping between each one like he was trying to put out a fire in his mouth. "What is in that sandwich?" he yelled, tears running down his face. People from other departments came to see what the noise was about. Someone asked if we needed to call for help. It was chaos, but I will admit, I felt a small sense of victory watching the mystery thief finally get what was coming to him. I figured that would be the end of it. The thief got caught, got embarrassed, and would stop stealing lunches. Case closed, right? Wrong. This person did not just stop. They got back at me instead. The very next day, I sat down at my desk and could not find my pens anywhere. I keep a cup of pens right by my keyboard, and it was empty. Not just empty, wiped clean, like someone had taken every single one. Then when I tried to type, my keyboard felt wrong. Some of the letters were missing from the keys. The little plastic caps had been popped off and swapped around, so the letters were in all the wrong spots. It took me twenty minutes just to figure out how to type my own name again. That is when I knew this had turned into something bigger than a lunch problem. This was now a full on prank war between me and someone in this building, someone who clearly had a lot of free time and a competitive streak just like me. Over the next couple of weeks, it became this back and forth game. I would find sticky notes covering my entire computer screen. They would find their chair covered in plastic wrap the next morning. It got silly, but honestly, it was kind of fun too, in a strange way. The office felt more alive. People started talking about it at their desks, trying to guess who the mystery prankster could be. But I needed to know who it was. The not knowing was driving me crazy. So I came up with one final plan. I bought a tiny camera, the kind people use for home security, small enough to tuck inside something without anyone noticing. I hid it inside an empty bag of chips and placed it on the shelf in the fridge where my lunch usually sat, angled just right so it could catch whoever opened that fridge door. I left my lunch in there like normal and went back to my desk, trying to act casual, like I was not running a full investigation out of a breakroom fridge. Around lunchtime, I checked the footage from my phone. And there it was. The fridge door opened. A hand reached in. Then the face came into view. It was the vice president. I could not believe it. This was a man who wore a suit every single day, who sat in meetings talking about budgets and company goals, and here he was on my tiny camera, quietly taking my sandwich like it was the most normal thing in the world. I walked up to his office that afternoon, footage in hand, feeling a mix of nervous and ready to laugh. I knocked on his door and he looked up, probably thinking I was there about some work project. I just held up my phone and played the video. His face went red, but not the spicy sauce kind of red. This was the caught red handed kind. He actually laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Alright, you got me," he said. "I have never done this before, taking someone's lunch I mean. But things have been slow around here, and watching you try to figure out who kept stealing from you, it was the most entertainment I have had in months." He explained that being vice president sounds exciting, but most days it is just paperwork and long meetings. He said watching the drama unfold in the breakroom, wondering if I would catch the thief, gave him something to look forward to every day. He never expected the hot sauce sandwich to actually work though. He said his mouth was on fire for an hour after taking a bite that one day, pretending he was not the one who ate it when people asked what happened in the breakroom. We talked for a while that day, longer than I expected. We agreed the prank war had gone far enough, and it was time to call a truce. But instead of just going back to ignoring each other like coworkers usually do, we made a new plan. Every week, usually on weekdays, we meet out in the parking lot during lunch and swap sandwiches with each other. No tricks, no hot sauce, no hidden cameras. Just two people from very different parts of the company enjoying lunch together. It started because someone stole my sandwich, but now it is the best work relationship I have ever had. Who would have thought a hot sauce prank and a tiny camera in a chip bag would lead to a real friendship with the vice president.

@Gary Thompson

3 0

Night Shift

The Hum of the Line

Working the night shift at the car parts factory feels like stepping into a parallel dimension. While the rest of the world tucks themselves into bed or finishes up their dinner, I am walking through the heavy steel doors of the plant at 10:45 PM. The air inside the factory is distinct. It has a heavy, metallic scent—a mix of industrial-grade oil, raw steel, and the lingering bitterness of burnt coffee that seems to permeate the walls. For me, time is not measured in minutes or hours on a clock face. Instead, it is measured in production quotas. It is about how many door frames we can churn out before the sky starts to lighten. My shift officially begins at eleven, but I always make sure to arrive early enough to catch Dave. Dave is the man who runs the machines for the day shift. By the time I see him, he looks like a man who has been through a war. His shoulders are slumped, his uniform is stained with dark, circular grease spots, and his eyes have that hollow, glazed look that only comes after eight hours of mind-numbing repetition. I walk up to his station, and he barely looks up from the control panel. He has his clipboard in hand, jotting down the last set of numbers for the day. He tells me the main press in Sector Four is acting temperamental again. It is running hot, he warns, gesturing toward a flicker on the digital display. He tells me to keep a close watch on the vibration sensors because the metal has been jamming intermittently since sunset. We do the customary ritual of swapping keys and access cards. It is a brief interaction, but it feels significant—a passing of the torch. Once Dave walks away, the factory floor suddenly feels vast and imposing. It is a colossal, dark space, save for the intense, clinical white lights shining directly over the work stations. These pools of light look like islands in an ocean of shadows. As the machines start to cycle back up, they emit a low, rhythmic hum. It is a vibration that does not just hit your ears; it travels through the soles of your boots and settles deep in your chest. You get used to it after a while. In fact, you become so accustomed to the steady thrum that the silence, when it finally comes, feels wrong. The truly quiet hours are usually between 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM. This is when the rhythm of the facility slows down, and the psychological weight of the night shift starts to press in on you. The factory is massive, and when the roar of the machinery dies down, the shadows seem to stretch and shift. Sometimes, your mind plays tricks on you. I have spent many nights catching a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, spinning around, and bracing myself for a supervisor to be standing there. But it is never anyone. It is just the hydraulic arms cooling down, shifting under the pressure of the metal they just shaped. It is just the factory breathing. We make thousands of door frames, day in and day out. They are all identical, stamped out of cold, unyielding steel in a matter of seconds. It is a repetitive process that eventually strips away your individuality. You start to feel like an extension of the machinery itself. My hands know the movements without me having to think about them. I can feel the temperature of the metal through my heavy-duty gloves, and I have developed an ear for the equipment that is almost supernatural. I can hear the high-pitched whine of a motor struggling or the slight hesitation of a gear before it snaps. You get to know how the metal feels; you know if the press is biting too hard or if the lubrication is running thin. It is a lonely existence, for sure. You are surrounded by massive machines and cold steel, but there is no one to talk to for long stretches of time. It is just you and your thoughts, echoing off the high ceilings. Despite that, there is a deep sense of satisfaction that hits me when the sun finally starts to peek over the horizon. Seeing a finished, perfectly organized pile of parts sitting at the end of the line—knowing I helped make that happen—is a quiet, private victory. By 6:00 AM, the morning shift starts to trickle in. They look completely alien to us. They have bright eyes, clean uniforms, and they are usually chatting about breakfast or the drive in. They look energetic and fresh, while we are walking ghosts. My clothes are soaked in grease, my eyes are bloodshot, and every muscle in my body feels like it has been through a grinder. We hand over the work, punch our time cards with a satisfying click, and push open the doors to head home. Stepping out into the bright morning sun is always a shock. The world is just starting to wake up, busy with traffic and morning commuters who have no idea that we have been here all night. They have no clue what it takes to keep these machines running. To the rest of the world, we are invisible, but to those of us on the night shift, the factory is a place where we make things happen. We keep the pulse of industry beating while everyone else sleeps. It is not just a job to me; it is a way of life that tests your strength every single time you walk through those doors. I have been doing this for ten years now. I know the rhythm of the night better than the rhythm of the day. Honestly, I think I would feel completely lost if I had to sit in the quiet, bright stillness of a normal 9-to-5 day. The hum of the machines has become my own heartbeat. The night is the only time things feel real, the only time I feel like I am exactly where I belong.

@Gary Thompson

14 0

Wildest

The Mysterious Pet in the Basement

Our office building was the kind of place that had history, but not the good kind. It was an old, creaky structure located on the edge of the downtown district. The floors groaned under the weight of our chairs, and the paint was peeling in layers like an onion. But the real problem was the basement. It was a dark, cavernous space that nobody ever used. It was filled with dusty cardboard boxes from the nineties, broken office chairs with missing wheels, and old files that probably should have been shredded years ago. It was the kind of place you only went if you had absolutely no other choice. One morning, a new guy named Greg went down there to look for some extra cables. He was only gone for about two minutes before he came sprinting back up the stairs, his face completely drained of color. He was sweating and breathing hard, clutching his chest. He told us he saw something strange in the corner by the furnace, something that moved too fast to be a mouse. We all laughed, of course. We told him the basement was full of shadows and that his imagination was playing tricks on him. We thought he just saw a rat, which was common enough in a building as ancient as ours. But then, the maintenance worker, Arthur, went down to check it out. Arthur was a guy who had seen it all; nothing fazed him. When he came back up, he was actually shaking. He dropped his wrench on the floor with a loud clang. He told us there was a giant iguana sitting on top of one of the filing cabinets. We stared at him in disbelief. An iguana? In a basement in the middle of the city? We thought he was joking, but he wouldn't stop staring at the basement door. We did not truly believe it until we started hearing weird scratching sounds coming from inside our office walls. It was a rhythmic, scraping noise that made us all jumpy. Apparently, someone must have abandoned their pet down there months ago, and it had somehow managed to survive on whatever bugs and damp moisture it could find. The whole office started buzzing with the news. It was all anyone could talk about by the water cooler. Some people, feeling a bit guilty, even started leaving bits of fruit and lettuce right outside the basement door. It became our secret office mascot, even if we were all a little terrified. Then, one quiet afternoon, the iguana decided to introduce itself to everyone. It didn't come from the basement stairs like we expected. Instead, it crawled right through the rusted air vent in the ceiling. There was a sudden, loud crash as the grate gave way, and the iguana landed with a thud right in the middle of our breakroom table during the lunch rush. I will never forget that moment. It was three feet long, bright green, and looked completely unbothered. It sat there on the breakroom table, surrounded by half-eaten sandwiches and coffee mugs, while twenty of us just stood there in total shock. It didn't care at all that twenty grown adults were staring at it with their mouths wide open. We quickly realized we were way out of our depth, so we called animal control. That was when the chaos really started. When the animal control officer walked in, the lizard decided it was time to make a run for it. It didn't just sit there anymore; it took off like a shot. It sprinted across the office, weaving through the maze of desks and cords. It knocked over several large potted plants, sending dirt flying everywhere, and then scrambled up the curtains in the corner. Everyone was screaming and laughing at the same time. The lizard was fast, darting over keyboards and climbing up the cubicle dividers with ease. Finally, after a very stressful ten minutes, the officer managed to catch it in a heavy-duty net. It was the most exciting thing that happened in that office all year. Once the lizard was safely out of the building, we decided we had enough. We did a deep clean of the basement and locked it for good, putting a heavy chain on the door. We never found out who left it there in the first place, but we all had our theories. We figured it was an old employee who thought they were doing the right thing by letting it loose in a dark, quiet place. It was a weird, unsettling reminder that our office wasn't nearly as safe or sealed off as we liked to think. Even now, sometimes when the office is quiet and I hear a slight noise, I still look up at the air vents. I find myself wondering if I will see those yellow eyes looking back at me again. That iguana lived a crazy, secret life while we were all just stuck at our desks, staring at computer screens. It is a wild story that we still bring up every time work gets boring. It reminds us that no matter how dull your job seems, you never know when something completely insane is going to drop right into your lunch.

@Gary Thompson

15 0

Wildest

The Cordless Drill Incident of 2019

I work at a high-end furniture shop where the air usually smells like fresh sawdust and expensive varnish. We take pride in our work, and safety has always been the mantra plastered on the walls and drilled into our heads during every orientation. But back in 2019, things went sideways in a way that I still think about every single time I hear the high-pitched whine of a motor starting up. My coworker, Rob, was our best builder. He had an eye for grain and a steady hand that made fine cabinetry look like child’s play. But Rob had one flaw—he was obsessed with efficiency, and that day, his drive for a quarterly bonus pushed him to make the worst decision I have ever seen on a job site. We were in the middle of a massive project, constructing a series of heavy oak shelving units for a high-profile client. The design was intricate, featuring recessed lighting and hidden compartments. The deadline was tight, and the pressure in the workshop was palpable. We needed to drill a series of precise mounting holes in a particularly awkward, cramped corner of the unit. The right way to do it was to take the unit apart, set it on the workbench, and use an angled drill attachment. That would have taken an extra hour, and Rob didn’t want to spare a minute. I remember watching him pace around the shop, his face tight with stress. Instead of grabbing the proper equipment, he started rummaging through a junk drawer. He found a flexible extension rod, but it wasn’t meant for the heavy-duty drill he was holding. He grabbed a roll of duct tape—the silver, industrial-strength kind—and started wrapping it around the rod and the chuck of the drill. I stood there, leaning against my workbench, and told him it looked like a bad idea. He just laughed, wiped sweat from his forehead, and said, 'Gary, I’ve got this. If I finish this shelf by five, I get the bonus.' I didn't push it. I should have, but I was just as busy with my own tasks. When he pulled the trigger, everything happened in a blur. The drill bit didn't bite into the oak; it caught a knot in the wood, and the torque was too much for his improvised connection. The drill didn't stop; it just started spinning wildly in his grip. It was like watching a helicopter blade break loose. The force of the rotation ripped the tool right out of his hands. It went flying, still screaming with power, tearing through the air. The heavy drill base caught the front of his shirt, tearing the fabric like it was wet tissue paper. It swiped across the table, shredding our carefully drafted blueprints into confetti. Then, it slammed into the drywall behind him with a sound like a gunshot. The impact punched a jagged, gaping hole right through the plaster. If Rob had been standing even one inch to the left, that spinning, metallic monster would have clipped his temple. I’ll never forget the sound—a screeching, grinding noise followed by a thunderous crash that vibrated through the floorboards. We all dove to the floor. We truly thought the roof was caving in on us. I remember burying my face in my arms, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. Then, it went dead quiet, except for the sound of my own frantic breathing. I slowly lifted my head and looked over. Rob was standing there, frozen like a statue. He was pale, his lips were colorless, and he was shaking so violently that his teeth were actually chattering. The drill lay on the floor near his feet, its motor still sparking and sending off a faint smell of ozone and burnt plastic. For the next hour, none of us could function. We couldn't even pick up a broom. We just sat on the sawdust-covered floor, staring at the destruction. My own hands were trembling so badly I couldn't hold a glass of water. It was a terrifying, sobering moment that brought the reality of our 'shortcuts' crashing down on us. The project hit a dead stop. We had to call the maintenance crew to patch the hole, and we spent the rest of the day cleaning up the mess of shredded paper and debris. The fallout was immediate. The boss came down hard, and rightfully so. From that day forward, there was a new rule: no one, not even our most talented builder, was allowed to touch a power tool without a supervisor signing off on the setup first. We had to call the client and tell them the shelf was going to be delayed due to an 'equipment complication.' We were all too embarrassed to admit the truth—that our master carpenter had almost caused a fatal disaster because he didn't want to spend ten minutes using the right tool. To this day, whenever I hear someone fire up a cordless drill, my heart skips a beat and my palms get slick with sweat. That incident changed the vibe of our shop forever. It reminded us that no bonus is worth a life, and that when you stop respecting the tools in your hands, the shop stops being a place of creation and starts being a place of danger. We learned our lesson, but I still carry the memory of that spinning drill like a ghost in the back of my mind.

@Gary Thompson

18 0

On The Job

The Final Shift at Miller's Hardware

I started working at Miller's Hardware thirty years ago. I was twenty-two, nervous, and wore brand-new boots that pinched my toes. Now I am fifty-two, and my knees pop and ache every time I bend down to reach for a box of nails or a gallon of paint. I feel like I have spent half my life in these narrow, creaky aisles, surrounded by the familiar, comforting smell of cut wood, machine oil, and cold metal. Old Mr. Miller, the original owner, passed away years ago, and his daughter, Sarah, took over the business. We are a relic in a fast-paced world. We do not use computers, scanners, or fancy tracking software. We use a weathered paper ledger to track our sales, a dusty corded phone that rattles when it rings, and we serve customers who have been shopping here since before I was even born. I never planned to quit until last month. I woke up at 5:00 AM every single morning for three decades, but recently, the alarms started to feel like heavy weights on my chest. I just could not handle the early wake-up calls anymore. My body told me it was time to move on. We had a small party in the back near the lumber stacks. Someone brought a grocery store sheet cake with my name, Gary, spelled 'Garry' in thick, sugary blue icing. It was the kind of detail that made us all chuckle. We drank warm coffee from thin paper cups that burned our fingers. It was perfect. We did not give speeches because that is simply not who we are. We are hardware people, not public speakers. Instead, we just spent three hours talking about the old stories, like the time the roof leaked during a summer storm and we had to drag every tarp we owned over the inventory. Or the time a raccoon got into the plumbing aisle and knocked over a tower of PVC pipes, causing a racket that sounded like a building collapse. It was funny, and we laughed until our ribs hurt, but it was also a little sad. Seeing my coworkers, people I have known longer than some of my own family members, laugh made me think about all the years we shared. We grew up here. We shared joys and heartaches. When the sun started to set and the soft orange light hit the dusty windows, casting long shadows over the tool racks, I knew it was time to leave. I kept my apron on until the very last customer left. He was an older man, a regular, who needed a specific part for an old faucet. It was exactly the kind of puzzle I have helped people solve for years. I walked him to the back, found the washer he needed, and explained how to fit it. I helped him find what he needed, then took off my apron and carefully folded it on the counter. It felt heavy after thirty years of work, like it was weighted down with all the tasks I had completed. Walking out the door for the last time felt strange. I kept waiting for someone to call my name or ask for help with a heavy box of hinges, but the store was quiet, bathed in the evening silence. I looked at my reflection in the window near the garden tools and did not even recognize myself for a second. I saw an older man, lines etched around his eyes, someone who had lived a whole life inside these walls. But as I walked to my truck, I felt a deep sense of relief. I gave this place my best for thirty years, and I left it in good shape. That is enough for me. I felt the cool air of the evening against my face, and for the first time in a long time, I realized I did not have to set an alarm for the morning. The quiet of the parking lot felt like a blank page. I climbed into my truck, turned the key, and listened to the engine hum. I looked back at the storefront one last time, the sign still hanging slightly crooked as it always had. I knew the store would carry on, and I knew I would be okay. Thirty years of service, thousands of interactions, and countless memories packed away. It was a good run. As I pulled away from the curb, I realized I wasn't just leaving a job; I was leaving a chapter of my life behind. There was no grand ceremony, no trophy, just the honest satisfaction of a job well done. That has always been the way at Miller's. You show up, you help the person in front of you, and you keep the place running. I did that until I couldn't anymore, and there is no shame in that. My boots, no longer new and stiff, were comfortable now, broken in by years of pacing the concrete floor. I drove home, watching the streetlights flicker on, and for the first time in years, I didn't think about the store's inventory or the pending shipment of lumber. I thought about what I might have for dinner, or how I might spend my morning without a schedule. It was a simple transition, but it felt like a lifetime of change all at once. I am ready for the quiet. I am ready to rest those aching knees and enjoy the slow pace of a life that isn't dictated by the opening hours of a hardware store. Miller's will always be a part of me, and I like to think I left a piece of myself there, too, tucked away in the smell of the pine and the dust of the aisles. That is all anyone can really ask for, I suppose.

@Gary Thompson

15 0