But I am not some bastion of great humanity like Mother Teresa or Desmond Tutu over here. I am just a person with my own foibles and idiosyncrasies and this happens to be one of them: a discomfort with all men between the ages of twenty-five and fifty who might watch sports.

So sue me.

The funny thing about this highly compensated job here (and this is something you would think I would have considered beforehand) is that this kind of man is the only kind of man I will be dealing with.

I should have thought of this. To not think about this was ridiculous. Or absentminded.

Or, perhaps, purposefully painful. Masochistic. As if I am punishing myself for a behavior I know, fundamentally, is wrong.

It’s impossible to really know what I was thinking.

In fact, now that I think about it, it seems odd to me that I would just randomly get off the train when I did. But somehow it was like I was simply compelled, compelled and then propelled. Like a decision made and not made. A fugue state. A sleepwalk.

A dream.

It’s like this: There are some people who really think things through. They analyze an idea, weigh it, turn it over in their hands, wiggling it back and forth like a prism, peering at every facet, every multitude of possibility. I am not one of those people.

Now, some would call me rash. I would say that I am a participant in life. I make a strange decision and act on said strange decision. Of course, it is not always the best decision.

Like now, for instance.

All of this is dawning on me as I am woken up by the sound of someone pounding on the front door, rather forcefully, before I open the door and am met with what appears to be the head bro, or the “guy in charge,” and four of his bro compatriots. All in jeans. Two in baseball caps. One in a ripped, sleeveless T-shirt. The “guy in charge” has strawberry blond hair, short, and looks like he could coach Little League. Totally Mr. Normal. Basic model. Straight off the conveyor belt.

I think, if I were to see myself, I would see a girl with her mouth twisted over to one side in a kind of pained expression of ineptitude. I would see a semicircle of bros around her at the front door, looking extremely impatient and annoyed, shifting their weight from one side to the other. And I would see the “guy in charge” sizing me up and deciding, fairly quickly, that I obviously must not be the one in charge but the assistant to the assistant of whoever actually was in charge.

“Um. Hello . . . miss. We’re from the MoniCED Company Builders. We’re s’posed to start work today. Out back.” He gestures.

Yes, I know what “out back” means.

“Of course! Yeah, they’re . . . I mean we’re expecting you.”