Freedom  

I got to the coffee shop late.

As a general rule, I’m usually late. I would love to claim it’s an occupational hazard, but the truth is it has nothing to do with my job. As my wife, my students, and my editors will tell you, I’m just always late.

In this case I was only five minutes late, which was fine, because the guy I was supposed to be meeting wasn’t even there yet. I ordered my coffee and sat in the back corner table. I don’t mind when people are late (I guess I don’t really have the right to be) — I can always work while I wait. I pulled out my phone and started to respond to some week-old emails.

“I know your shtick!”

I looked up. The guy standing in front of me was wearing sunglasses, a pink shirt, and tight jeans. He was holding a milkshake the same lurid color as his shirt. I couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t wearing socks.

He sat down across from me. “You’re Simcha, I take it,” I said, stretching out my hand.