Head Volunteer   So that was my title — Head Volunteer. (Little did I know.) Such a plum assignment, she promised, and for payment the sheer   experience should suffice — such leadership was said to be its own reward. Endearments followed, tacit gratitude, a nip   at the golden flask while my betters hovered nearby. I wore a monkey suit and sipped champagne like someone with nothing to prove.   My duties? Only vaguely defined — something about the stars, their labors of love, their special needs, their greatness. But no grumbling,   no backing out when it wasn’t fun anymore, though she did feed me the crumbs from the high table, a dollop of honey   if I begged. When she cut off my wine she forewarned me about trying to run away — too late for that, she said. You’re mine.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont September 2025