A Well Greased Wit

I stopped on the way home last night to pay my rent. The office has been redone: new beige carpet; fancy pink and beige chairs -- very nice. The manager was on the phone so I sat in one of the chairs to await my receipt. A man walked in. He looked more like a mechanic's grease rag than a mechanic. He said he'd come straight from work to sign his lease. The manager, craddling the phone on her shoulder and writing on a note pad with her right hand, waved a stack of papers at the fellow with her left. "I've been expecting you," she said. "Read the papers. Initial wherever you see yellow highlighting." She swiveled her chair to hang up the phone. "You can just have a seat at the table." She looked up at the guy for the first time, took in his greasy attire and added in a squeak, "But don't touch anything!" The fellow looked at the pink and beige chair. He looked at the table. He winked at me, then he turned to the manager. "Since I haven't learned to levitate yet," he said. "Is it okay if I just stand?"