My ticket stub is lying in the mess of receipts on the passenger floorboard. Cops at roadblocks don’t look forgivingly upon chaotic floorboards, and the skillet lost in its chaos might prove dangerous to them. A lenient God would hope I will survive what’s coming, because I’m kinda crappy and He knows it. I’ll try harder next time.
A mattress of ticket stubs and receipts and bills is an oasis, and honesty about the lost ticket stub is a contagion. Nobody outside the criminal world, I’m sure, thinks of things this sweetly. There simply doesn’t exist a dispensary for self-assembling grocery bags. I will have to invent one. I bet the instant the world straddles this runaway gallbladder aesthetic, soap opera smiles would be beamed down by satellites; knives in crime dramas would expertly and jovially slice through the degenerate strands of drool hanging from them.
‘I’m the one everyone came to see, officer. I’m a professional dancer.’ His smug grin shatters.
‘You mean to say you’re – ’
‘Yes.’
A flicker of doubt. Cops are so easily taken in.
‘M-move along.’
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