The department of anecdotal evidence

I was there every evening to answer questions, kept waiting in a courtyard filled with ancient trees, flocks of noisy birds, and lovely sunsets. The colors were so fresh, but there was frequently the stench of decaying matter. And if you asked why, they would say, “We don’t have to tell you.” Music could be heard from afar, the inmate orchestra playing Humpty Dumpty’s Funeral March. I had a big magnifying glass with me for examining things I found on the street. A fattish policeman in a too tight uniform twisted it out of my hand and then looked at my face through it. “Jackpot,” he said. That’s when I realized I should have done something sooner. It’s a hard way to be born, I think.

Howie Good

Author of:

The Loser's Guide to Street Fighting


Highland, NY