Foggery

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“Take me to your leader,” said the voice above me.

“Huh?”

I looked up.

“Oh, Mr. Fogg?” said Adelaide Jones from the third desk in the news room.

“Mr. Fogg!” said the man at my desk.

Observe that word: Man. I have no intention to be sexist. But, damn it all, if I called the thing standing at my desk, as green as a celery stalk (and looking about as stringy, may I add)—anyway, as I say, if I called that thing Woman, I would be up on charges of degenerate sexism, which is hardly my intention. Please: let me call him a man. He was anything but. But I would rather not call it a her. I did have the evidence before me, moreover, of his wearing clothing stereotypically male, at least in our society: blue overalls, blue work-shirt, and a straw hat, out from which his antennae poked. The clothes looked good, if a bit baggy on this particular vegetable.

“Mr. Fogg!” he said, having learned my name from Ms. Jones. “Take me to your leader!”

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