Not My Username
A man calls out to us from up ahead. A dime seems like an odd amount to panhandle for. Do they even make dimes anymore? Bernadette finds some change while I finger what I think may be a dollar bill but turns out to be a piece of paper with my username and password for Pandora One. I'm not giving that away. I find thirty one cents and place it in his crusty black hand and by doing so save us from the sermon. The man behind us, who gives nothing, gets the sermon, which we, walking, almost to the corner now where we will turn into a restaurant (I'm no Bennet Cerf), can hear with crystal clarity, almost cringing now on the front row, wooden pew meets bony ass, underarms itch with embarrassment because I know he's talking right to me. If you exit to the east at dinner time this is going to happen. Exit to the west not so much.
View current page
...more recent posts