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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