entertainment

I am staggering under two cases of toilet paper as I crash through the door that leads out of Third Lobby and into the main stairwell, which is haphazardly carpeted with juicy yellow and red leaves. As I think to myself, sighing inwardly, that the steps will need to be swept and mopped yet again that day, a descending friend whistles at me. "Whew! Bearing gifts, I see." I grin at her over the blue saran-wrap-style casing and agree. "Yes. They're indispensable."

Arriving at the bottom of the stair, I am laughing at myself and the word I chose. Indispensable. What a word to describe the gift of toilet paper, which, after all, I will spend all week first dispensing to each lobby and hall closet, and later loading into the contraptions that we in the custodial business refer to as "toilet paper dispensers." Goodness.

Not that any of the recipients of these magnanimous dispensations would dream of dispensing of them. In that final dispensation, so to speak, they can indeed be aptly labeled "indispensable."

But I'm getting carried away. Words tend to have that effect.

Now that I've found some means of dispensing my mirth, I can carry on dispensing the indispensable.

Good day.