G a r b a g e

So? Buttons on your underwear.

Teddy just showed up in the neighborhood with his Brazilian dancer girlfriend after spending the last eleven months in Washington Heights. I haven’t seen him since that night he made undercooked ravioli in his apartment.

Teddy’s the guy who saved my life with that third coffee, walking me three steps downstairs to the sun-whacked okay oak corner of the coffeeshop on Greene and Franklin. These days the pretty young women stand like mannekins behind the coffee counters.

I picked up the editing job as well, a hundred and fifty dollars in cash to sit in a sunny corner office and teach a supervisor how to output quicktimes from final cut pro. This comes out of the gentleman’s pocket, cash, from the bank on the corner. These are the kinds of unsexy decisions one makes when one is dead broke and in need of the pleasure of a gourmet roast.

B a r k i n g . . .