It doesn't look like you'll have a hard time trying to find a seat tonight. In desperation, you head toward a lone dark figure huddled in the corner. You ask if you can sit down. He looks at the table and mutters something about a government conspiracy aimed only at him, while referring to himself in the third person plural.

 "Um... so how 'bout those Mets?" you ask with a friendly, but disconcerted smile. He clutches his belongings and runs for the door. Alone once more.

 You eat while humming along to the WSRS elevator music that's being pumped through some speaker. A Bon Appetit staff member walks in, and you sing louder, hoping to attract their attention. Suddenly, they begin to walk toward you.

 "Hey, do you remember this song? The O'Jays? 1974?" The twelve year-old under-the-counter wage slave looks at you, repulsed. Struck out again.

 You look down at your food. You stick your fork into it and begin to stir. It gets stuck, much like concrete when it hardens. Hey, that gives you an idea. You begin molding. You start yourself off easy: a stick figure, a wiener dog... it progresses into a Henry Moore. You start wondering if you have too much time on your hands. Nah. You start molding your fork.

 "Now this is art," you say to yourself, twisting the fork prongs in every direction. After a few minutes, you examine your creation, decide you can't part with it, and shove it in your pocket. Now it's time to go.

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