The Price of Gas

I set the price of gas. I sit between the woman who approves the cause of thunder and the team for missing circuits. A cloth wall separates our desks. 

In the summers, when people are out driving, I will work four to five hour days. There are no windows on my side of the building. I take yogurt breaks in the stairs.

I do not envy those who set the dimensions of swing sets or the speed of an arrow. Due to the consequences of an error, they work in calligraphy. 

In the process of setting the price of gas I will often be interrupted by the manager of lines. She will sneak up behind me, my head deep inside the wall, and whisper cold sequin interrogations. I’ll roll eggs in my palm, the gesture for INDENT.

I once set the price of gas incorrectly. I did not realize English has no word for the air just above the soil. My wife brought the kids in, we huddled beneath my chairs, we made one up.

In the winter I am called in to assist with the price of propane. This means arranging parking cones along the shore and finding new constellations of stars. The price of gas can stay the same for weeks.

I do not control signs, or billboards. 

If I retired, and that question has not been settled, I’ve asked that the bishop of inks take my position. He and I share a love of pneumonics, and his twists on coffee theory will make him perfect.