You walk along the dumpster alcove in the back of the apartment complex or, as you like to call it, ‘Aisle 3’.
The smell of yesterday’s crawfish wafts from the first dumpster. “Is crawfish seafood?” You ask no one. No one answers. “Well, it’s not kosher, anyway.” No one rolls their eyes because they know you are not Jewish. You tip the brow of your hat, which is a metal colander, to bid the dumpster adieu and continue on your way.
In an empty space between the dumpsters you glance a couch with both cushions still intact. What a day! You use both hands to squeeze one cushion, then the other. “Hmm, hmmm, yes,” you say. “It seems the left one is more ripe. Won’t last as long.”
You remove the right cushion from its place on the frame. You place the cushion to the side and remove the cinderblock tied to your belt with a bungee cord. “I trust this will be sufficient compensation, ma’am,” you say to a cashier who is not there, and you drop the cinderblock onto the couch.
Your purchase complete, you unzip the cushion’s upholstery and place your leg inside, knee-deep.
Your new shoe in place, you perform exactly six jumping jacks as is the law then walk into the nearby pharmacy to purchase a postcard to mail to the president. He never writes back, but you’ve seen on the television that he takes your advice on domestic economic policy very seriously.
What a good day.