Making a Living, by John O’Keefe

A muscleman, on the treadmill next to mine, is whispering to a black kid, “125 Oak Street.” The little boy, wearing street clothes, gives a thumbs-up, “Got it, George,” and disappears.

A fat white kid shows up. He seems to be apologizing. George nods, “I know you do, Frankie.” The jelly belly continues whining. George nods again, “I’m sure you will, Frankie.”

I get off my machine and glance at George’s: TIME REMAINING 5:56. I walk over to the free weights and call it in, “Took two photos. Treadmill number eleven. Let’s give him five more minutes.”