Yes, yes, yes, no, yes. It’s a pattern known to many, spoken often, but heard by only a few. It’s a click of a mouse, an exclamation to an animated telephone operator and a direction to a child. Fergus has spoken it since the age of 7. Nan Pike had assigned him the biweekly role of dole attester, as the submission time conflicted with the rebroadcast of Jim Furlong’s nostalgia soiree, A Little Good News. She always missed the original airing as it aligned with her weekly gossip session, better known as the Orangemen’s wives dart club. For his troubles he was given enough coin to head to the store for a cameral log and a pineapple crush. He preferred this task to the alternatives which his sister and brud had claimed before his birth. His hands inadequately dexterous to work the grey rolling machine that Liz used to methodically pack 49 tight cylinders of Export A Green into their unfiltered tubes. His heart too soft to remove the matted fur from his uncle Wilf’s latest hall from the snares that trace the riverbanks of Boyd’s Cover eastern shore. These were the images that floated back like an errant buoy drifting from its place atop a gill net, as Fergus entered the 6 digit response to his latest EI claim. Having lost his ticket due to an unforeseen run in with a local RNC rookie at Siren’s two Tuesday past, he was now no longer an acting PA, in the legal sense. This allowed him to take advantage of Mr. Chretien's newly rebranded EI scheme having earned his 400th billable hour a month prior. That isn’t to say that he was no longer active, just that acting needed to occur in a less than official capacity until his hearing before the local magistrate. It wasn’t scheduled for anytime soon. With a final click of the pound sign and a robotic thank you response, he dropped up the receiver. His chin dropping to the rum stained collar of his other nice shirt.