The sun is bouncin’ off the pavement already. Not much traffic on the street, but the stream of customers is steady.
Been here for hours, days, can’t remember. Can’t remember much. Not sure why I’d want to.
Fat Iggy’s here with his shopping cart. He calls it a silver chariot. It’s full of green plastic bags and bottles and garbage he collects, but when he’s high, it probably looks like a BMW.
We talk about nothin’. Just makin’ sounds. He passes me money. I pass him product. That’s all either of us care about.
Some business bitch in four hundred dollar shoes walks by. I bang into her shoulder, hard, just to let her know it’s my corner.
Her head doesn’t turn. She doesn’t flinch. Iggy and I don’t exist.
Her phone rings Lady Gaga.
It’s my fuckin’ corner.