The nervous group of mulleted newbies awash in plaid waited. Silently. The box of donuts was untouched but the Folgers disappeared as if it actually was mountain grown.

Into the room came the crusty HR maven. As efficiently as possible, documents were and terse instructions given. “These are the mailbox and locker keys.” Each key klunked as she placed it in front of its owner. “You have a 20 minute break. I suggest you check the keys before you return.”

Most of the mullets headed outside to hurry along the onset of cancer. One who always did what he was told easily found his mailbox which contained unclaimed mail.

The locker room had that common locker room smell of old sweat, foot odor and Ben Gay. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify. The smell intensified the closer he got to his locker. He breathed deep and filled his nose with the scent. Rubber cement, sour milk and was it tarragon? Anxious to leave, he turned the key.

He felt a firm grip on his shoulder.