You and Mr. Foster

It is 8:45. You have made it to your office in time. Fifteen minutes before Mr. Foster’s appointment. Your Middle Eastern driver swerves to the curb and puts the car in park. Nervously, he looks into the rearview mirror with anxious eyes while trying not to look too obvious. You see that he is rather fretful. Digging into your pocket you pull out your wallet and retrieve a couple of bills. You start to count then have second thoughts. “Here you go,” you say. He reaches behind him and hungrily grabs the bills. He sees that you have over paid him—$20 over to be exact. He starts to say something, and then thinks again. “Thank you Señor,” he says.
The rain has now begun to pick up momentum; it spits and spats on the roof of the car, and you mentally beat yourself up for not remembering to bring an umbrella. Well, it shouldn’t be that bad. Your office is only right there. You reach for the door knob, and the cab driver asks if you have an umbrella. No, you tell him. “I have one. Here let me walk you to the door.” He feels like being extra nice today—you’ve paid him generously. He walks you to the door, shakes your hand goodbye and you thank him for his umbrella.
The lobby is brightly lit and your eyes wince in pain as they adjust from the forlorn grey of the outside sky to the cheerful glow of the office. Becky, your receptionist is behind her desk. Eyes pasted exclusively on the screen in from of her, typing with fleeting speed. “Morning,” she says. “Morning,” you say back. You grab the mail for the day and walk to your office. There is a cup of hot coffee sitting in a Styrofoam cup on a coaster on your desk. Becky, you think. You put the mail complacently on your desk pick up the coffee and splatter it into the garbage. “Well,” you mumble, “She’s wasted her money; she knows I don’t drink coffee.”
Sitting down in your swivel chair, you open a drawer and gather a cluster of papers. Outside, the rain has increased, and is more obvious now. The spits and spats hammer loudly on the roof and the window behind you. Becky’s typing has also seemed to have become more apparent. She ticks, ticks, ticks, letters onto the screen at speeds unbeknownst to you. Becky does all the typing work. You can’t type for anything. She can talk, sip coffee, joke, laugh, greet people who come in, answer the phone, and eat at the same time. It’s rather fascinating to you. Knock, knock, knock. Someone is knocking on your window. You bend the blinds and look out—it's Mr. Foster, soaking wet. He doesn’t have an umbrella. You check your watch. Yup, it’s time 8:57. Shoving the papers back into the drawer, you take a big breath and calm yourself. He walks into the lobby drenched. He didn’t have an umbrella, he explains. You said that it is ok and lead him into your office. You look back at Becky. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she grins knowingly. Your Monday begins.