Apropos of nearly nothing I mentioned that John Steinbeck's birthday was this Friday, the 27th.
A young man in the back says, "Hey, that's my birthday," his eyes sparkling.
"Cool," I said, and I started to write something about the day's discussion on the board.
"Me, too," another voice came, a young woman.
I turned around. "You both have Steinbeck's birthday? Wow. There's, like, 12 of us, and you have the same birthday."
The young woman, said, "Well, mine's not Friday. It's Wednesday."
"That's the 25th," I said.
"And mine is next Monday," the young man said.
"Wait. What? Next Monday is March 1st, or 2nd, actually. And you," I said, pointing at the woman, "Wednesday is February 25th."
Cheerily, the young woman said, "Oh, I know, but I celebrate all week."
"Me, too," the young man in the back said.
They were both happy.
"But you both know, right, that those days are not the same. That the 27th is not the 25th. And it is certainly not a day in March?"
Their smiles faded. I knew I should stop. But I'm Hiram. I baffle easily. I stun. I get winded. I get sweaty.
"You both know that whether or not you celebrate all week, that your only actual birthday is one day, right? I mean, the day you were born. No other day?"
It was silent. I like silence sometimes. Like just before I have a stroke.