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Notes from the Underground Volume 2 Number 3 - A Tour of My Wallet Hey y'all, My late Great Uncle Dmitri had a superstition: never trust a man whose wallet is thicker than 1 inch wide. To my uncle, it didn't matter if this guy told the best stories, would drive you to the airport or never complained if you were late returning his lawn mower: If you were the kind of guy who had a thick wallet, Uncle Dmitri wanted nothing to do with you. It was as though you had devil horns growing out of your head. Part of it was a rigid old world view of how men were supposed to look and behave. Part of it was, perhaps, due to the fact that Uncle Dmitri was a complete misanthrope and was looking for arbitrary reasons to distrust others. The fact that he died alone with a copy of Nietzsche's collected essays on his bedside table is not surprising. Yeah, he was a cantankerous old lug, but he was still lovable in a strange, Ebeneezer Scrooge type of way. Despite outward appearances, and the fact that he called me a Ukranian word that can be politely translated as "moron" my whole life, I always got a sense that Uncle Dmitri had a soft spot in his heart for me. I mean, he would commemorate my birthday every year by sending me a Hallmark card ripped up into dozens of tiny pieces, but at least he remembered. That is why it pains me to admit: I've entered the land of the big walleted folk. I don't know how it happened. Oh, wait, yeah I do, but first I should describe my wallet. It's maroon with green accents that I got a couple of years ago. It's folds up like a square, and, being hemp, there's the obligatory pot leaf motif on the front. Of course, this makes teenaged grocery baggers everywhere snicker. Totally uncool. But I trace my expanding wallet to way back when I was in high school. My sweetheart Jessica wanted me to carry her photo around in my wallet as a expression of my dedication. Whatever. That was when my wallet ceased to be a merely functional i.d. and money organizer. At first I thought it was kind of cheesy to carry her picture with me, but then it sort of felt natural, and, yes, a little sweet. This is a good time for me to say that I believe there are two types of people in the world: those who keep photos in their wallets, and those who don't. Most people wouldn't think that I'd fall into the former category, but I guess I'm the sentimental type. (Does that earn me any points with the ladies? I didn't think so.) My first photo is that of my chickens. Yes, they're still living in my bathroom, and my guess is that they're here to stay. Luckily I've got a slum-lord who hasn't set foot in the building since Seinfeld was showing new episodes, so he's not much of a worry. I do have to worry about Mao, the rooster, who's begun crowing recently. Ol' lady Kryznyk has started poking around in the hallways, asking other tenants about it, but so far no one's blown my cover. Fortunately they don't speak English. All right. I've got another photo, this time of my great-grandfather on my ma's side. Or maybe it's my dad's side. Maybe it's not even my great-grandfather. In any case, it's some old black and white snapshot of a dude in a fedora sitting on some porch steps. I don't remember the significance of this particular photo, but it must have been meaningful at some point. At least I hope so. Next up: a picture of J. Butterly, cut lovingly from People magazine. Sigh. (No, smartass, I DO NOT subscribe to People, but my mom does, and since I happened to notice that Julia was in the issue, well...) The next photo photo is of this cool tree I did a treesit in two summers ago. I forget which tree it was, or why I was sitting in it, but I think it was somewhere in Alabama. That was a real busy year. I think it's a maple. My last photo is that of my ex-ex-ex-girlfriend, Holly. I'm not sure why I still carry her picture with me, but I never figured out a way to get it back to her since she left town in the middle of the night without warning. The last I heard she was reading tea leaves in Venice, or maybe it was tarot in Phoenix. I don't remember. Anyway, I should probably take the picture out at some point. It's not like I'm harboring any old feelings. (Though, if you are by chance reading this, Holly, do you remember where you put the bathtub stopper? I haven't been able to take a bath since you left. Yes, of course I've been showering.) All right, now we're moving on to identification and such. I no longer have a driver's license, due to the police state we live in. (Don't ask.) I do have a 'rent five videos, get a sixth one free' punchcard from B&B's Video Galaxy on 16th Street. I'm on number 3. I've also got a punchcard from the Smoothie King. I'm on number 4; I think a blueberry-banana will take me over the top. That's it as far as identification, although I think I still have my library card, probably buried somewhere under a heap of clothes. At least I hope it is. Next we have receipts, which I keep stored in the bill section of my wallet. Lots of receipts. About two dozen are from the local rip-off overpriced chain health food store that squeezes me for money a couple times a week. Next I have a receipt from the Dress Barn. Yeah, Ma made me pick up some nude pantyhose for her. Good thing that's not going to send me into a round of therapy. Now I'm looking at a receipt from the bike shop, who fixed my front tire after last week's spill. A receipt for bandages because of last week's spill. I've got a receipt from my local bookstore for buying a copy of my favorite magazine, Conspiracy Theory. Next receipt is from the hardware store around the corner, where I had to buy plaster to cover up a big hole in the bathroom wall (chickens), and a new shower curtain (chickens). I've also got a receipt from 1998 in here; it's so faint I can't read where it's from. I had written this cute anarchist's phone number on it, but I never called her because I couldn't find it. Well, here it is. Do you think she'll remember me if I call? Moving on to the money portion: I've got exactly $3.83 in my wallet. Three single bills, 2 quarters, two dimes, two nickles and three pennies. I'm flush. Plus, I found an I.O.U. from Raven for $10.00. I'll have to call him on that when I'm low on dough. So there it is. Do you feel like you know ol' Crazy Pete any better now? Meanwhile Great Uncle Dmitri's spinning in his grave. That's all for now. Catch you later- -Pete |
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