It’s 12.30 p.m. and Greek Martin Sheen isn’t here and Mother Hen isn’t here and Lisa is at her job too and I’m standing by myself plugging lids.

I can do it almost automatically by now.

The plugging, I mean.

Mick likes it.

Mick says, ‘You’re efficient, mate.’

It’s because I feel comfortable doing something when I’ve been shown how to do it.

And I still remember my first day at Galatas Elementary School. I was sitting in homeroom before first period, at a desk surrounded by people I didn’t know, and all the boys had that one haircut, the cut my family called ‘The Kickflip’, which was short on the sides and pushed forward to the front on top, except that at the front it would shoot up toward the ceiling, or slightly back towards the wall.

During the school announcements, some lady with a high-pitched voice said, ‘Goooooooooooo Greyhouuunnnnnndsssssssss!’

I asked someone who the Greyhounds were and they said, ‘We’re the greyhounds, dumbass.’

So the greyhound was our school mascot, and we were all greyhounds.

After the announcements, we walked to English class.

Our teacher told us there was a pop quiz.

She smiled and said, ‘Pop quiz, y’all.’

It turned out a pop quiz could also mean a spelling test, so we had a spelling test.

The teacher said lots of words that I understood.

She said, ‘Nature. Nature is beautiful and all around us. Nature.’

And I wrote down, ‘Nature.’

She said, ‘Clouds. The clouds might open up tonight and rain on our houses. Clouds.’

And I wrote down, ‘Clouds.’

Then she said, ‘Ruff. A ruff is something people need to live. Ruff.’

And I thought: ruff?

I mean, the fuck’s a ruff?

I kept picturing a dog ruffing a lot.

When we got our spelling test back my teacher had put a line through the word ‘ruff’ and written ‘roof’ next to it.

I went up to her after and said, ‘I thought you were saying ruff, like the dog.’

She smiled, patted my head, and said, ‘Next time you might listen more closely. You’re in America now, sweetie.’

I remember looking at the roof and thinking: but it’s a roof … not a ruff.

Greek Martin Sheen arrives.

He waves at me and walks over to my workstation.

He begins plugging lids and says, ‘Last night me and my boyfriend watched Good Will Hunting. I hadn’t seen it before and he wanted me to see it. I liked it. I kept thinking about my life. I kept thinking that maybe, one day, I’ll just do what Matt Damon did. I won’t tell my dad and I won’t tell work and I won’t tell my brother. Me and my boyfriend, we’ll just go. We’ll just move to New Zealand where we can get married and everyone else can go and get fucked.’

And I plug lids, standing opposite Greek Martin Sheen, thinking about how the real world isn’t the same as fiction.

That you can’t make up people’s stories.

That you can’t invent people’s memories to explain their actions.

And I look at Greek Martin Sheen and wait for him to continue.

But he doesn’t.

And, in many ways, he doesn’t have to.