Monday, November 23rd, 2020

The afternoon prayers get rolling half an hour late. It’s the birthday of one of the programmers. He’s turning sixty. He tends to work late, so he shows up close to noon. He walks among the cubes, handing out candy. To celebrate, the bosses order lunch for us, not from the usual shawarma joint but from someplace else. They specialize in roast chicken and schnitzel. Lunch shows up much later than we expect, almost at the time that the prayers usually start. The insurance agent from downstairs who tends to round us up appears on time. The boss asks him to come back in a little while. The lunch is excellent. I get the roast quarter chicken with a plateful of vegetables. Two workers stand in the small kitchen and pass the meals out to us. The birthday lunch isn’t as festive as it had been in the past. Due to the virus, we eat alone in our cubes, not together in the conference room. The agent shows up again after half an hour. He gathers us for the prayers. One former worker who has come back for a brief project joins us. He always wears the standard back and white of the ultra-orthodox. He puts on a wide-brimmed black hat. When he gets out to the hallway, he pulls a long black rope from his pocket, wraps it twice around his waist, and knots it loosely in front. We’re still short by one person. The guest sees the building manager in the atrium, three floors below us. He hollers down. The manager hollers back and heads to the elevator to join us. A cafe on that floor has opened a window into the atrium. They serve coffee and food through it to the people at the tables sitting in the open air. A soldier dozes in a plastic chair. A toddler runs back and forth between her and another child. The boss invites the programmer with the birthday to lead the prayers. He declines. Someone else takes charge. When we’re done, people give the programmer the traditional wish to live until 120. The boss says not to rush him. He’s already halfway there.