My Cardboard Balcony

Good For You by Belinda Roddie Good for you, sir, for making me twitchy - for allowing my two hands to clench and unclench at the very out-of-whack tune of your whiny pitch. For thinking you were some modern day savior of the bus-goers, telling that bicyclist what for. Yes, how dare he even think to accept common courtesy from a stranger, and to top it off, you decide that snark is the best witness to your great crusade. Fuck off, my dear gentleman, lest you feel your balls shrivel into wisps beneath your jeans and your scowl sag above your plaid collar. Do not bother to enlighten the scholarly masses when you cannot get over the useless idiosyncrasies of your everyday routine being offset by one iota. You do not deserve depth if you only sink into the shallow end of the pool. Breathe in the chlorine - it suits your briny tongue better.

I had heard the stories before. All of the stories, actually. Geronimo never let up with them. I knew his life story almost better than he did. In fact, when he started retelling stories to passerby, I would sometimes correct him if he couldn't remember a detail or botched a date. It was almost as if I was becoming the mental stenographer for him here. So I bought a typewriter from an old friend. Geronimo appreciated the tick-tack sound as I recorded his tales.