The following was published in American Noise, written by Heather Jacks, a.k.a. the Condom Lady.
Calvin Klein suit ironed, umbrella in hand, I boarded the R Train and made the twenty minute ride from Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan. I was spry. I was well versed. I was special—as evidenced by my court summons, officially stamped by the NYPD and not one, but two automated voice mail messages reminding me of my mandatory appearance in New York City court.
Failure to appear would result in a warrant for my arrest. I surmised that the City of New York was serious.
And then, I got off the R Train. At first, I thought Hendrix had come back from the dead. I’d miss court and go to jail for that. But as I neared, I saw familiar faces; faces who, I shudder to think, may not listen to Hendrix.
There was Claude, an old man of about 150 who has lived his entire life in New York. He paints scenes from his history on tin cans and dilapidated wood, and then sells them from his rickety table—which was probably made somewhere about the same time he was….
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