When I returned to work after my father died, everyone seemed genuinely sympathetic. The Second Floor Director, unaware of Simon’s moratorium on praying, had sent out an All Staff email in which she wrote: “It is with deep regret that must I inform you of the passing of Auden Triller’s father. Our prayers go out to Auden and his family during this difficult time.”
Richard Townes, the cross-dresser who worked for me, wore a black blouse and skirt that week, a gesture I told him I appreciated, and Ted, who could turn any unfortunate circumstance into an opportunity to do less work, let me know that I was entitled to two more days of compassionate leave in case I was unaware of the policy. Even Filderman, who hadn’t said a word to me since I tortured him with make-believe first names, left h
