 Hi everyone it's really nice to be here this afternoon. I'm gonna read a piece that is called Nothing is Hidden and in it I reconsider my first job at McDonald's as an early flickering of formal Zen training and it's from a collection in process called Love Serenade. Does that sound good? So this is a part of the essay and it's called Would You Like Blank With That. At its heart working at McDonald's proffered an early and thoroughgoing acquaintance with the power of repetition and form. The complexion of my mind at that time was a stir in registering the sensation of the subtle and tremendous distinctions within uniformity. Within that realm my first job at McDonald's offered another first, right there in the break room, Greg B. I'll leave it at that though his name is so generic it is perhaps possible to use it without violating his privacy. We had recently started requesting the same shifts. For good measure I'll change his surname slightly the way names are transparently changed in some fiction, Brennan. Okay throw in another G. Let him be Greg Brennan with two G's. After all would he want anyone now to read that he leaned back on the basement break room couch, blue polyester uniform retaining in the web of its molecular structure a faint sheen from the fry vat, his legs parted enough to make space for me where I knelt before his lap, his hips rising as my head lowered onto what was assuming in my mouth a confirmation the proportions and fluctuate densities of which I would later determine in consultation with my friend Meredith to be of a textbook perfection. The textbook being the copy of Playgirl she had just given me for my 16th birthday. At Meredith's slumber party that weekend we passed the magazine around kneeling over it head-to-head turning the pages from above. Wait, turn back. I like this one. Comparing what we found in the magazine to what we were seeing in the field. Greg's looked like the centerfolds I decided. He had a golden quality, the source of which was untraceable. He's so beautiful you could sleep with him and still be a virgin I posited. Something about this formulation pleased my friend Nancy, the only one among us having regular sex. And I felt she looked at me differently from then on. Could Greg can I withstand being reminded now that before and after we both wore those paper hats? Yes, we did. We took the hats off and then afterward we put them back on. Just as is fitting for any ceremony. Greg was one of the people who actually looked hot in his uniform. The blue cap with its striped band and slightly cocked brim like in admirals. In Provincetown there is a theme week dedicated to leather, latex and uniforms. But I don't remember seeing anyone walking around in a fast food uniform. The predilection tilts more toward protective services. Still, anything can become erotic given the right constraints and freedoms. What is it to look hot in a blue polyester tunic with a striped yoke and matching pants? It comes down to this. Some people wear their uniforms and others are worn by their uniforms. Need I say Greg wore his uniform, which is to say that to behold him was to behold a living, breathing body uncompromised by the inertia of the fabric. Perhaps how Greg's long-muscled swimmers torso outshone all that was standard in his uniform is what Shinryu Suzuki Roshi was pointing to when he said, when you are all in your robes, I can see your individuality. I wanted to unbutton that uniform shirt. It didn't matter that the gold that the buttons had golden arches embossed on them. Of course the timed nature heightened the proceedings. We had 20 minutes for our break. This is something any Zen practitioner knows the value of a container for focusing the mind. We banked on the stairs creek giving us ample notice of anyone coming down, but the stairs were silent for as long as we needed, which given that it had been by then almost 10 minutes since we had clocked out and that Greg was 16 years old was from zipper down to zipper up, say four, five minutes max. Only four or five minutes being time. That sense of total absorption, a prime teaching in bowing, in following the breath, my attention drifting to the sleeves of soda cup lids stored behind the couch. I had to stock them after break. Returning to the breath, his breath. In his breath I read that yes. What happens if I vary the pressure slightly? How about here, the underside? I'd been studying the frenulum as much for the word as for what it promised. And here it was. Who needs the word when the tip of your tongue is on the delicate referent? Attention to detail, but not too much. Come back to the breath. Functional silence, only such speech as is necessary. Slower, faster, faster. The relief that comes from not talking at all. All this was so much fine tuned training for the Doan Rio playing the various ritual instruments during Zen services in which slight variations in pressure and timing and striking a bell or drum can mean the difference between a settled assembly and one where each person feels slightly askew and thinks it's them, but more likely it's that the bell was too shrill or the timing uneven. We went back upstairs and still had time for a snack. One of those apple pies that rotated along glowing coils, the sleeves slipping as they made each quarter turn. The heat, the filling retained always exceeded my patience in letting it cool. We handed the rectangular pie back and forth until Greg gave me the last corner. We clocked back in with a few seconds to spare. Thanks.