Years ago, when I was the editor of Harper’s, we employed a “mentally retarded” (as the term was back then) man named Joe as our “office boy” (as the term was back then). He sorted the mail, ran simple errands, and kept the stockroom stocked. One day I went to the stockroom in search of typing paper (as the term was back then), opened the supply cabinet, and stared at the contents but didn’t see what I was looking for. Joe was there, and I asked him, “Hey Joe, are we out of typing paper?” He pointed to a ream at eye level. “Gosh,” I said, “how in the world did I miss that?” Joe smiled sweetly and said, “Don’t worry, Mike, it happens to me all the time.”