Amateur Profiler

Alas, when in heaven, one must play by heaven’s rules.

I accept Mike’s cordially extended hand muttering perfunctory pleasedtomeechu through my gritted teeth avoiding his gentle eyes.

I know nothing about Mike, except that he is my boss’ good friend, which in itself speaks volumes. At the moment, however, I happen to grossly overlook that vociferous fact.

I am fully aware that I am neither God nor an FBI profiler. I consider myself an open-minded, non-prejudiced person. And yet, I feel a compulsive urge to mentally X-ray Mike and pin him down:

His age.

Where does he fit on the fleeting scale between too young and too old? I decide to squeeze him into the prickly category of middle age, which instantly raises its own questions.

His experience.

Is he a rookie? Or a pro? Or just meddling?

And the pecking order determined by the above. 

His motives.

Why is he really here? Are his intentions purely altruistic, obligatory or merely pragmatic? Is the real reason why he is here to do the work only so he can brag about it social media? Or to eat pizza and donuts, along with those teenage boys tossing frisbee on the front lawn?

His mild-mannered demeanor turns out to be impervious to my amateur attempt at profiling.  He breaks the awkward silence by motioning towards the house,

Shall we get to work?