Dear Diary,
I was ten years old when my grandmother Gertrude was eighty and she ran my school bus off the road by repeatedly smashing her Ford Pinto into our crowded, moving, yellow vehicle. She then burst from her car in her apron and flowered smock, sporting a short, white, old lady perm and a hand gun and forced the bus door open. She gave the frightened, shocked bus driver a dirty, hard look through her coke-bottle eyeglasses which magnified her eyes three times their regular size and which were fastened to a thin chain around her neck. All the children were petrified, frozen in their seats as she grabbed my hand and yanked me away.
Once we were both inside her car, she roared back onto the road, straight to her house. I didn't ask any questions. With Grandma Gertie, it was always best not to know too much.
"A bank was just robbed down the street from my house," she volunteered. "And I need you to be our alibi. The police have been hounding me for years regarding several hold-ups in the area."
"Where were you when the bank was robbed, Grandma?"
"Where do you think? You think banks rob themselves?"
"Was Marilla with you?"
Marilla was Grandma Gertie's best friend.
"Why do you think the police suspect us?" Grandma Gertie responded. "During the robbery, she was using her damn walker."
At her house, we quickly set up a game of bridge with Marilla, and my grandmother cheated. When the police finally showed, I told them we had been playing for hours. When the police detective asked if I was Eric, the little boy who had just been abducted by an armed elderly woman off a school bus, we all made a run for it, but didn't make it very far as Grandma and I had to wait for Marilla to find her glasses.
In the police station, as we waited to be interrogated, Grandma fell to the floor, in convulsions. I screamed for help. My grandmother was dying right before my young, innocent eyes. Marilla was soon on the floor as well, also in convulsions. When they both lay motionless, they were loaded onto an ambulance. I bawled as I waited for my parents. My two best friends in the world were dead.
That's when I heard an ambulance siren approaching. I ran outside as the ambulance from before barrelled onto the police station parking lot, colliding with police cruisers. The back door flew open, as Grandma Gertie reached out to me from inside. I latched onto her hand and she pulled me in. Marilla was at the wheel, scraping past electrical polls, trees and more vehicles. At the hospital, once the paramedics had exited the ambulance, the two had commandeered the vehicle and rushed back to scoop me. We were now heading to where the money was hidden.
We parked the ambulance at the mall and my grandmother and Marilla spent their newfound booty on things such as hard candy, salted black licorice, Bengay, denture cream, lottery scratch cards and both signed up for a Readers Digest subscription. They bought me things as well, mostly socks, before speeding back to Grandma Gertie's house where both ladies baked me some rock hard bran muffins and then torched the place, to get rid of all the evidence they said. They left me on the front lawn for my parents to pick up as they both drove away in the ambulance, the siren still blaring. I miss my Grandma Gertie every day.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Grandma Gertie
Dear Diary,
When I was a little boy, my parents used to drop me off some afternoons at my grandmother Gertrude's. Before they would leave, my father would always eye my mother's mother suspiciously, even though Grandma Gertie was just a diminutive eighty-year-old woman wearing an apron over a faded flowered smock and sporting a short, white-gray, old lady perm. Supposedly back in the 1920s, my Grandma Gertie had been a notoriously wild flapper, dancing in all the big nightclubs of the time. But in front of my father, she now moved very slowly, and smiled, offering half-baked, salted, black licorice cookies which tasted oddly like sweat-soaked running shoes.
As soon as my parents were gone, my grandmother would quickly throw on some satin number while downing shots of gin, and then would invite the mail man in. Soon her street would be clogged with two dozen postal trucks, the stereo in her house would be blaring disco music and my Grandma Gertie would be dirty dancing with all the city postal workers. I'd cry then, scared out of my mind, as my grandmother would throw herself from the chandelier into the waiting arms of her mail men, screaming, "Special Delivery!" She'd usually try to kiss someone on the mouth then, before kicking everyone out, and consoling me with one of her stinky black licorice cookies as she made sure her dress was still covering her in all the right places. I miss her.
When my parents would pick me up at the end of the day, my grandmother would always be back in her flowered smock and apron, moving about the house ever so slowly. As we would leave, my father would never stop eyeing her suspiciously, especially if a pair of panties suddenly fell from the chandelier. Grandma Gertie would usually offer a small laugh then, adding, "I haven't seen these in years."
When I was a little boy, my parents used to drop me off some afternoons at my grandmother Gertrude's. Before they would leave, my father would always eye my mother's mother suspiciously, even though Grandma Gertie was just a diminutive eighty-year-old woman wearing an apron over a faded flowered smock and sporting a short, white-gray, old lady perm. Supposedly back in the 1920s, my Grandma Gertie had been a notoriously wild flapper, dancing in all the big nightclubs of the time. But in front of my father, she now moved very slowly, and smiled, offering half-baked, salted, black licorice cookies which tasted oddly like sweat-soaked running shoes.
As soon as my parents were gone, my grandmother would quickly throw on some satin number while downing shots of gin, and then would invite the mail man in. Soon her street would be clogged with two dozen postal trucks, the stereo in her house would be blaring disco music and my Grandma Gertie would be dirty dancing with all the city postal workers. I'd cry then, scared out of my mind, as my grandmother would throw herself from the chandelier into the waiting arms of her mail men, screaming, "Special Delivery!" She'd usually try to kiss someone on the mouth then, before kicking everyone out, and consoling me with one of her stinky black licorice cookies as she made sure her dress was still covering her in all the right places. I miss her.
When my parents would pick me up at the end of the day, my grandmother would always be back in her flowered smock and apron, moving about the house ever so slowly. As we would leave, my father would never stop eyeing her suspiciously, especially if a pair of panties suddenly fell from the chandelier. Grandma Gertie would usually offer a small laugh then, adding, "I haven't seen these in years."
Friday, August 17, 2007
Under-Appreciated at Work
Dear Diary,
I am steaming right now in my cubicle. You see, I am the photocopy guy in a small accounting firm and I have an extremely unique problem: I am under-appreciated. No one here works like I do, or provides the office with all that I offer. I’m terrified to think what would happen if ever I were to leave. This place would crumble. Seriously. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t want to be here if I left here.
I’ve made a list of at least 5 things no one appreciates about me at work:
5. I make a lot of promises
Most people are afraid of making a commitment to a project. Or announcing that they will take full responsibility for a major undertaking in the office, such as building an addition or a sun deck. Not me. I make grandiose statements about what I’ll do with wild abandon. And if I don’t completely forget about them later, I’ll cancel entire projects if they no longer excite me or I feel like they’re weighing me down. That way, I save everyone the trouble of a grumpy Eric who’s prone to vandalism.
4. I give bad people the silent treatment
No one doles out office justice quite like me. Out of the twenty-four employees in our office, I’m now only speaking to two, and that’s including myself. Last month it was zero. I was like Helen Keller without the sign language.
3. Every day, starting at 3:45pm, I cook my dinner on a hot plate in my cubicle
Leaving the office with my dinner for the evening already prepared keeps me from rushing to get out of the office right at 5pm or attempting to leave early. This week alone, I’ve made jambalaya, curried goat and trout risotto.
2. I re-decorate the office with recycled garbage
Abandoned mattresses make great couches if you can bend them. Just this morning, at 6am, I picked out twenty-four tires from the junk yard, filled them with dirt and planted one daisy in each, and then placed one “tire flower” on every desk.
1. I build and maintain office morale with a show every Friday
Every Friday, right after lunch, I set up my ghetto blaster and wireless microphone and walk around the office, making jokes, Don Rickles-style, ridiculing everyone in the office while pointing out their shortcomings. The jokes just write themselves, really.
I am steaming right now in my cubicle. You see, I am the photocopy guy in a small accounting firm and I have an extremely unique problem: I am under-appreciated. No one here works like I do, or provides the office with all that I offer. I’m terrified to think what would happen if ever I were to leave. This place would crumble. Seriously. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t want to be here if I left here.
I’ve made a list of at least 5 things no one appreciates about me at work:
5. I make a lot of promises
Most people are afraid of making a commitment to a project. Or announcing that they will take full responsibility for a major undertaking in the office, such as building an addition or a sun deck. Not me. I make grandiose statements about what I’ll do with wild abandon. And if I don’t completely forget about them later, I’ll cancel entire projects if they no longer excite me or I feel like they’re weighing me down. That way, I save everyone the trouble of a grumpy Eric who’s prone to vandalism.
4. I give bad people the silent treatment
No one doles out office justice quite like me. Out of the twenty-four employees in our office, I’m now only speaking to two, and that’s including myself. Last month it was zero. I was like Helen Keller without the sign language.
3. Every day, starting at 3:45pm, I cook my dinner on a hot plate in my cubicle
Leaving the office with my dinner for the evening already prepared keeps me from rushing to get out of the office right at 5pm or attempting to leave early. This week alone, I’ve made jambalaya, curried goat and trout risotto.
2. I re-decorate the office with recycled garbage
Abandoned mattresses make great couches if you can bend them. Just this morning, at 6am, I picked out twenty-four tires from the junk yard, filled them with dirt and planted one daisy in each, and then placed one “tire flower” on every desk.
1. I build and maintain office morale with a show every Friday
Every Friday, right after lunch, I set up my ghetto blaster and wireless microphone and walk around the office, making jokes, Don Rickles-style, ridiculing everyone in the office while pointing out their shortcomings. The jokes just write themselves, really.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Inappropriately Dressed for Work
Dear Diary,
Yesterday, at 4:31pm, I got called into my boss Sheila's office. I sat across from her as she stared at me from behind her desk.
SHEILA: What you're wearing today might be considered inappropriate.
ME: Really? What's wrong with it?
SHEILA: Well, for starters, you're wearing a T-shirt. You should be wearing a shirt and tie.
ME: My bad.
SHEILA: And what's written on your T-shirt... it's upsetting people.
ME: Oh. I wasn't aware. This T-shirt was given to me as a Christmas present.
SHEILA: It says I hate Derek. Derek... doesn't really know what to make of it.
ME: Must be a popular T-shirt. Big seller, I guess.
SHEILA: It's handwritten in black marker. And Derek is spelled wrong. You have two K's and three R's.
ME: It was given to me that way. Probably an import.
SHEILA: Who gave it to you?
ME: Secret Santa. We pick names from a hat every year in my wife's family. So really, I have no way of knowing who wanted to upset Derek.
SHEILA: Eric... do you hate Derek?
I paused then, as Sheila stared straight into my eyes. I felt stuck. Cornered.
SHEILA: Do you?
ME: How I feel about Derek and what's written on my T-shirt are two completely different things. Really, I don't know why Derek is making such a big stink. I really don't like that guy.
SHEILA: I'll say a word. And then you tell me the first word that comes to mind.
ME: Shoot.
SHEILA: Derek.
ME: Scumbag.
SHEILA: I want you to go home now. And I never want to see that T-shirt again.
ME: What? You don't like the color? Too much maroon?
SHEILA: And that gold medal you're wearing. Derek won that at the Company Olympics. I want you to return it to him.
I clutched my gold medal.
ME: This is the only thing I've ever won in my life.
SHEILA: You return it, and then go home.
ME: Can I ask you a question? Do you hate me?
SHEILA: What?
ME: Be honest. Who would you marry? Me or Derek?
SHEILA: Get out.
ME: Would you have Derek's baby?
SHEILA: Get...
ME: Are you and Derek having dinner tonight, and then laughing behind my back?
SHEILA: I'm married. Get out. Now.
ME: Fine. Say hi to Derek for me, when you see him tonight.
Yesterday, at 4:31pm, I got called into my boss Sheila's office. I sat across from her as she stared at me from behind her desk.
SHEILA: What you're wearing today might be considered inappropriate.
ME: Really? What's wrong with it?
SHEILA: Well, for starters, you're wearing a T-shirt. You should be wearing a shirt and tie.
ME: My bad.
SHEILA: And what's written on your T-shirt... it's upsetting people.
ME: Oh. I wasn't aware. This T-shirt was given to me as a Christmas present.
SHEILA: It says I hate Derek. Derek... doesn't really know what to make of it.
ME: Must be a popular T-shirt. Big seller, I guess.
SHEILA: It's handwritten in black marker. And Derek is spelled wrong. You have two K's and three R's.
ME: It was given to me that way. Probably an import.
SHEILA: Who gave it to you?
ME: Secret Santa. We pick names from a hat every year in my wife's family. So really, I have no way of knowing who wanted to upset Derek.
SHEILA: Eric... do you hate Derek?
I paused then, as Sheila stared straight into my eyes. I felt stuck. Cornered.
SHEILA: Do you?
ME: How I feel about Derek and what's written on my T-shirt are two completely different things. Really, I don't know why Derek is making such a big stink. I really don't like that guy.
SHEILA: I'll say a word. And then you tell me the first word that comes to mind.
ME: Shoot.
SHEILA: Derek.
ME: Scumbag.
SHEILA: I want you to go home now. And I never want to see that T-shirt again.
ME: What? You don't like the color? Too much maroon?
SHEILA: And that gold medal you're wearing. Derek won that at the Company Olympics. I want you to return it to him.
I clutched my gold medal.
ME: This is the only thing I've ever won in my life.
SHEILA: You return it, and then go home.
ME: Can I ask you a question? Do you hate me?
SHEILA: What?
ME: Be honest. Who would you marry? Me or Derek?
SHEILA: Get out.
ME: Would you have Derek's baby?
SHEILA: Get...
ME: Are you and Derek having dinner tonight, and then laughing behind my back?
SHEILA: I'm married. Get out. Now.
ME: Fine. Say hi to Derek for me, when you see him tonight.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
How to Get Love
Dear Diary,
I have been married for almost two years now and that makes me a bit of an expert with women. I sometimes like to dispense my knowledge to other males who are still single because they don't truly understand the feminine mystique and can't get any ladies to ask them to marry them. The following are my top five tips on how to land yourself a lady and make her want to stay with you. At least for two years.
5. Be fancy
Women love fancy things, like fancy jewellery and fancy skirts. Buy yourself fancy jeans, or fancy gym shorts, and have your mom sew frilly things and lace onto them.
4. Open doors
When I first dated my wife, I'd open the door for her, and for those behind her as well. At concerts and busy restaurants, she'd sometimes have to wait while I held the door open for the groups of people behind us. Sometimes, I'd be holding the door a good few hours, our date long over. When she'd finally drive me home, I'd be exhausted just from smiling for everyone, and saying hello, and then later, saying goodnight.
3. Be charming
On the first date, don't yell at her. As well, don't swear at people she introduces you to, or try to give them open mouth kisses. Had I known this, I would have been married ten years ago, and many times.
2. Give
Give her something once in a while. There are lots of things women like. If you're not using that garden hose with the massive hole in it anymore, somebody else might like it. And a cracked drinking glass isn't garbage until your floors are so sticky with juice, small objects get stuck for weeks.
1. Be yourself
On the first date, if you're cheap, rifle through her purse in front of her and grab a few bills for yourself while shouting, "Jackpot!" If you're a workaholic, bring your entire office with you and pull an intense all-nighter putting a deal together, shushing her whenever she tries to talk to you. If you have trouble expressing your emotions, when she tries to be funny, cry uncontrollably, or when she confesses to you a tragic part of her life, laugh hysterically. Or face her with the back of your head the entire night and never acknowledge her. If she's the one, she'll love you for it.
I have been married for almost two years now and that makes me a bit of an expert with women. I sometimes like to dispense my knowledge to other males who are still single because they don't truly understand the feminine mystique and can't get any ladies to ask them to marry them. The following are my top five tips on how to land yourself a lady and make her want to stay with you. At least for two years.
5. Be fancy
Women love fancy things, like fancy jewellery and fancy skirts. Buy yourself fancy jeans, or fancy gym shorts, and have your mom sew frilly things and lace onto them.
4. Open doors
When I first dated my wife, I'd open the door for her, and for those behind her as well. At concerts and busy restaurants, she'd sometimes have to wait while I held the door open for the groups of people behind us. Sometimes, I'd be holding the door a good few hours, our date long over. When she'd finally drive me home, I'd be exhausted just from smiling for everyone, and saying hello, and then later, saying goodnight.
3. Be charming
On the first date, don't yell at her. As well, don't swear at people she introduces you to, or try to give them open mouth kisses. Had I known this, I would have been married ten years ago, and many times.
2. Give
Give her something once in a while. There are lots of things women like. If you're not using that garden hose with the massive hole in it anymore, somebody else might like it. And a cracked drinking glass isn't garbage until your floors are so sticky with juice, small objects get stuck for weeks.
1. Be yourself
On the first date, if you're cheap, rifle through her purse in front of her and grab a few bills for yourself while shouting, "Jackpot!" If you're a workaholic, bring your entire office with you and pull an intense all-nighter putting a deal together, shushing her whenever she tries to talk to you. If you have trouble expressing your emotions, when she tries to be funny, cry uncontrollably, or when she confesses to you a tragic part of her life, laugh hysterically. Or face her with the back of your head the entire night and never acknowledge her. If she's the one, she'll love you for it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Late For Work
Dear Diary,
At the bus stop, the other morning, on my way to work, I remembered that I had forgotten my lunch, so I walked all the way back to my apartment building, but then remembered that I had left my briefcase with my keys inside it at the bus stop, so I walked all the way back to the bus stop. As I finally walked to my apartment with my briefcase and keys, I remembered that I had left my umbrella at the bus stop, and the sky was overcast so I walked again to the bus stop.
When I finally got on the bus with everything I needed for the day, I rang the bell to get off at the next stop, remembering that I had left the tea kettle boiling at home. Then, one after the other, and during more back-and-forths between my apartment and the bus stop, more things came to mind that I had forgotten, including leaving the blender running with blueberries inside and no lid. Long story short, I was late for work.
When I finally entered the small accounting office I work at, on my tippy toes, and hoping no one would notice, I bumped into Sheila, my boss.
SHEILA: Are you just getting in?
ME: Yeah. I missed my bus this morning, and then left the tea kettle on.
SHEILA: It’s four forty-five in the afternoon. Everyone is packing up for the day.
ME: Oh good, I won’t need to open up my briefcase. I can just turn around and walk right on out. I tell you, I’m glad this day’s finally over.
SHEILA: Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute. This is unacceptable. You missed an entire day of work.
ME: Haven’t you ever missed the bus before?
SHEILA: You’re seven and a half hours late.
ME: While I’d love to chat more about this, I’ve got to head back home. During my many visits to my apartment today, I ran a garden hose from the back deck to our bathtub and I think I may have left the water running.
At the bus stop, the other morning, on my way to work, I remembered that I had forgotten my lunch, so I walked all the way back to my apartment building, but then remembered that I had left my briefcase with my keys inside it at the bus stop, so I walked all the way back to the bus stop. As I finally walked to my apartment with my briefcase and keys, I remembered that I had left my umbrella at the bus stop, and the sky was overcast so I walked again to the bus stop.
When I finally got on the bus with everything I needed for the day, I rang the bell to get off at the next stop, remembering that I had left the tea kettle boiling at home. Then, one after the other, and during more back-and-forths between my apartment and the bus stop, more things came to mind that I had forgotten, including leaving the blender running with blueberries inside and no lid. Long story short, I was late for work.
When I finally entered the small accounting office I work at, on my tippy toes, and hoping no one would notice, I bumped into Sheila, my boss.
SHEILA: Are you just getting in?
ME: Yeah. I missed my bus this morning, and then left the tea kettle on.
SHEILA: It’s four forty-five in the afternoon. Everyone is packing up for the day.
ME: Oh good, I won’t need to open up my briefcase. I can just turn around and walk right on out. I tell you, I’m glad this day’s finally over.
SHEILA: Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute. This is unacceptable. You missed an entire day of work.
ME: Haven’t you ever missed the bus before?
SHEILA: You’re seven and a half hours late.
ME: While I’d love to chat more about this, I’ve got to head back home. During my many visits to my apartment today, I ran a garden hose from the back deck to our bathtub and I think I may have left the water running.
Monday, August 13, 2007
A Booklet Titled Life
Dear Diary,
I am sitting in my cubicle this morning, thinking about what makes this world so wondrous. It really is. This world is wondrous. So wondrous. Does wondrous mean ‘a lot of wonder’? Or that something is ‘chock of full of wonder’? What does that mean exactly? Does that mean everyone is always wondering about everything and they’re not sure of anything? If so, then I truly believe that this world is wondrous, because I have no clue what is going on in my life, nor do I understand what anything is anymore, or what people actually mean when they say, “You need to calm down, turn around and get out of my life.”
I guess I began to lose my bearings at around age ten when I fell in love with Marie McBarrel. I sent her a note in class asking, “If you like me, as much as I like you, please draw a circle around your desk with white chalk. That way, I will get the hint and will take things to the next level.” She wrote me back, writing, “Chalk around my desk? Are you preparing for a crime scene? Believe it or not, you’re creeping me out way more now than the time you sent flowers to my mother at her work with a note saying, ‘Soon, I’ll be calling you mommy too.’ Please, never attempt any contact with myself, or anyone in my family ever again. Ever. Do you hear me? Do you get the hint? I could not hate you more. And hate is the opposite of like. Do you get it? I DON’T LIKE you. Is that clear? I DON’T LIKE you. If you’re still confused, then this is what I actually mean: YOU are the person that I DON’T LIKE.”
The fact of the matter is, I was really more into Marie’s mother than Marie herself. But still, talk about mixed messages. I wish that when you were born, your parents would hand you an instruction manual that you could read at your own leisure to know how to live life right. Kind of like when you get a new electronic gadget and you get this little booklet in five different languages with diagrams about how to use your new piece of equipment. I don’t necessarily read it right away, preferring to play with my new toy for a bit to ‘figure it out’, and usually end up doing something wrong and causing irreparable damage to it, but still, with the booklet, you can then go back and see where you went wrong. When I look back on my life, I have no idea: where did I go wrong?
I know where I went right. I once saw a man drop a picture on the sidewalk ahead of me, and chased after him as he hopped into a taxi cab. I jumped into the next cab, and when he got out of his cab, I ran after him some more, and then we both got back into cabs, and then I sprinted after him as he entered a building, and I had to grab the next elevator after his because the line was so long, and then raced after him through hallways, and then back out of the building, past a demonstration by striking workers, through a restaurant, through a parade in Chinatown, through a police interrogation line-up, across the stage of some TV talk show, and then right into his house as he was sitting down with his family for dinner. As I handed him his long-lost photograph, panting, with sweat dripping from my forehead right into his salad, he looked up at me (as his wife was dialling the police) and told me that this wasn’t his photograph. It was just some useless flyer that he had thrown to the ground. I blushed, then exploded at him for polluting, and then yelled at his family, calling them all a bunch of polluters. That was the right thing to do.
I am sitting in my cubicle this morning, thinking about what makes this world so wondrous. It really is. This world is wondrous. So wondrous. Does wondrous mean ‘a lot of wonder’? Or that something is ‘chock of full of wonder’? What does that mean exactly? Does that mean everyone is always wondering about everything and they’re not sure of anything? If so, then I truly believe that this world is wondrous, because I have no clue what is going on in my life, nor do I understand what anything is anymore, or what people actually mean when they say, “You need to calm down, turn around and get out of my life.”
I guess I began to lose my bearings at around age ten when I fell in love with Marie McBarrel. I sent her a note in class asking, “If you like me, as much as I like you, please draw a circle around your desk with white chalk. That way, I will get the hint and will take things to the next level.” She wrote me back, writing, “Chalk around my desk? Are you preparing for a crime scene? Believe it or not, you’re creeping me out way more now than the time you sent flowers to my mother at her work with a note saying, ‘Soon, I’ll be calling you mommy too.’ Please, never attempt any contact with myself, or anyone in my family ever again. Ever. Do you hear me? Do you get the hint? I could not hate you more. And hate is the opposite of like. Do you get it? I DON’T LIKE you. Is that clear? I DON’T LIKE you. If you’re still confused, then this is what I actually mean: YOU are the person that I DON’T LIKE.”
The fact of the matter is, I was really more into Marie’s mother than Marie herself. But still, talk about mixed messages. I wish that when you were born, your parents would hand you an instruction manual that you could read at your own leisure to know how to live life right. Kind of like when you get a new electronic gadget and you get this little booklet in five different languages with diagrams about how to use your new piece of equipment. I don’t necessarily read it right away, preferring to play with my new toy for a bit to ‘figure it out’, and usually end up doing something wrong and causing irreparable damage to it, but still, with the booklet, you can then go back and see where you went wrong. When I look back on my life, I have no idea: where did I go wrong?
I know where I went right. I once saw a man drop a picture on the sidewalk ahead of me, and chased after him as he hopped into a taxi cab. I jumped into the next cab, and when he got out of his cab, I ran after him some more, and then we both got back into cabs, and then I sprinted after him as he entered a building, and I had to grab the next elevator after his because the line was so long, and then raced after him through hallways, and then back out of the building, past a demonstration by striking workers, through a restaurant, through a parade in Chinatown, through a police interrogation line-up, across the stage of some TV talk show, and then right into his house as he was sitting down with his family for dinner. As I handed him his long-lost photograph, panting, with sweat dripping from my forehead right into his salad, he looked up at me (as his wife was dialling the police) and told me that this wasn’t his photograph. It was just some useless flyer that he had thrown to the ground. I blushed, then exploded at him for polluting, and then yelled at his family, calling them all a bunch of polluters. That was the right thing to do.
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