MUFFIN MEN
by Tony Antoniadis 

My boss believed that if he could feed the pigeons that roosted on the
roof of the building next door, then his business would become successful—
because of the karma.  But he couldn't make the muffins reach; they'd
pathetically graze the façade, scrambling the pigeons to another rooftop
where men with limp wrists knew better than to take aim.

I played baseball when I was nine, so he recruited me to throw the muffins.

Moments after my first successful heave, the fax machine purred: a purchase order for some discontinued mantel cloths. My boss snatched it and smiled knowingly. I told him that there was no way that the muffin toss had anything to do with the new purchase order.
 
He soured. Then, hitching up his action slacks and gazing out the window, out past the building where a frenzy of pigeons were tearing the muffins apart, he said, "Well, it beats the fucking alternative, pal."

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