From the pages of
(P.O. Box 132, New York, NY 10024)
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So in the last issue we left off where I was thrown into jail for jumping a subway turnstile because I was late for work and tired of waiting twenty minutes in line, and I am in jail without my shoe laces and my belt which were taken from me so that I would not “hang myself.” And I am looking at the guys in the cell with me, and they are staring back at me in my shirt-and-tie work clothes, and I am trying to seem like I am in for homicide so they will leave me alone….So then I sit down in the back of the cell, resigned that the worst day of my life is not going to get much better.
And this one guy–who was obviously a bike messenger because he looked, with his helmet and all his padding, like what humans might look like today if they had evolved from cockroaches and not apes–is all, “Look, I gotta deliver this package! It’s important!” and the police were all laughing, “You know what? We get fifty of you messengers in here every day, fifty of you at a hundred bucks a pop. Scumbags like you pay my salary” which luckily made the guy shut up. Then I am thinking that New York City–financial capital of the world and bedrock of business in America–has billions of dollars in transactions and contracts and business deals at any given point in time being schlepped around town on the backs of what might very well be a bunch of felons and petty criminals.
