Part Two

I want that one right there.

I point up to the bag hanging in the air on a hook. The exact bag that I bought yesterday. "Yes, my friend," the shopkeeper says. He recognizes me. "You bought the same bag the other day."
Yes, I did. I had hoofed it over from the 14th Street station to get here, through the cold. The wind picked up, tore through my opened jacket, but still I was sweating like a runaway slave inside of the fucker. This was indeed a dressing faux pas. The shopkeeper shouts at one of his helpers and points to me. "Get my friend his bag!"

I follow the help deeper into the store and he pulls the bag from a stack of others. He hands over the bag and I fork over the bills. Now, with this one, I should be able to move without enlisting the aid of garbage bags.

I hate to sound all snooty, but there is no way that I'm moving out of here with my shit in bag after garbage bag. That's how they want you to leave. Looking like a true pauper. How many times have I seen individuals marching out of this party piece with garbage bags slung over their shoulders like Black Santa Clauses.

I will not go out like that. I buy my bag and carry it out of the store with me, walking back to 14th Street and catching the Way to Grand Central where I head to work. This is going to be a pretty interesting day.