The kid who does this is sick. They don't meet his eyes when they tell him; he doesn't shrug and say, "find another kid." It's a small outfit.
He gathers the broadsides under his arm, turns up his collar and takes to the streets. The words were supposed to be the hard part. He slaps posters to walls, to poles, to the doors of abandoned buildings. The day crumbles away and at dusk he's left with more sheets than he'd like.
The kid who does this also has more than two arms.
Don finds a bar, slumps onto a stool. Drops the stack of broadsides in the seat next to his. He rubs his eyes and when his drink arrives reaches for it with fingers still numbed by the cold.
a bar; givdi
He gathers the broadsides under his arm, turns up his collar and takes to the streets. The words were supposed to be the hard part. He slaps posters to walls, to poles, to the doors of abandoned buildings. The day crumbles away and at dusk he's left with more sheets than he'd like.
The kid who does this also has more than two arms.
Don finds a bar, slumps onto a stool. Drops the stack of broadsides in the seat next to his. He rubs his eyes and when his drink arrives reaches for it with fingers still numbed by the cold.