By Dylan Campbell
approximately one in ten cars to pull over to the side of the road to give money to the panhandler on the on-ramp of the ross island bridge.
he gets into his bentley at the end of his shift to report back to the skyscraper office to report his earnings, only to have taxes deducted, and his wages garnished to account for unpaid alimony to his ex-husband. he got to keep the car in the settlement.
he drinks home-brewed kombucha back at his hovel because it keeps his bowels regular.
the mission of the conglomerate was to gather information of drivers passing through this particular intersection, based upon the make and model of their cars, and whether or not they were willing to give money to somebody who may or may not be buying high gravity lager with the earnings. the gathering of “snail data” has been commonplace ever since the internet went offline fifteen months from now.
after being thrust into incurable astral projection after being struck by a bicyclist that ignored a stop sign, he became a passive observer of all goings-on in the city around him.
i am not insane, he insists.
this is irrelevant, we just want the combination to your locker, comes the reply.
this extra-dimensional interrogation chamber didn’t have walls, but if it did, they would have been taupe, since that soothes the mind.
everybody wants something from someone these days, he laments.
yes, and all the world’s a stage, and the production is a comedy, because tragedy plus time equals comedy, and time is elastic. life is a joke, and we’re the only ones laughing.
the sound of laughter follows.
his placeholder stands at the side of the road just the same, going through the motions.
spare a little change for a disabled veteran?