Dear Dirty America

My friends, I purchased an old brief case (the kind my father has) to give me an air of sophistication I hadn’t been exuding. I kept the briefcase empty because I really had nothing special enough to carry, but in the unlikely event I came across an item or novelty worthy, I would have an empty briefcase in which to stow it. My briefcase has a lock.

The second day since I’d bought my scuffed brown briefcase from a novelty store, I stood on the corner of Wilton and Wilshire, looking tough. As I enjoyed the sunny day and watched the cars burn through the busy intersection, a short thin dude approached me. Next to me, he leaned against the wall.

I had dark sunglasses on, and my hair was extra full that day. He gave me a weary look without fully turning his head toward me. He was also hiding behind dark glasses. I gripped the briefcase handle tighter. This is a stickup, I thought, and I’ll soon be another crime statistic in the LA Times. Here we go. I clenched my butt and prepared for the worst.

The young man gave three long glances up and down the street before inching his hand behind my back. I jumped forward, expecting to be jabbed with a rusty old knife blade. I thought of the nearest hospitals and medical centers, and wondered if I could stumble a mile with a punctured kidney, and that was only if this psycho didn’t stab me one hundred and eight times first.

“Take the fucking money,” he muttered, “and leave me alone. I’m done.”