Spoiled

Outside an unfortunate rattles glass in pursuit of deposit refunds. His tattered shambles lean precariously into the recycling bin and he sweeps a gloved hand back and forth to stir up the cream. Glass money. A strange connection there, with the tribes of old, using unwieldy stone currency and this modern vagabond scrounging for large, fragile nickels. His face weather beaten, scowling, he mounts his aluminum steed, his plastic bag saddlebags dangle like testicles from either handlebar. Half filled with the spoils of the day, two dollars and sixty-five cents worth of returnable bottles and cans, they clatter-clang back and forth as he peddles down the alley.

I am spoiled. Sometimes I let that creeping anxiety depress me. Yet a glance out my window provides the relief I need for today. Because here I am, seated before a massive, high-tech gizmo wired to the world wide web, space heater blowing warm air up my pant-leg, speakers streaming a radio station in San Francisco. I have nothing to bitch about. I am just peachy.