Very drunk man walking by, yelling up to the telephone wire guy up in an elevated bucket: HEY, DID YOU PUT THE SHEEP UP THERE?
Telephone guy in the bucket high above, poking at a little box: Sheep?
Drunk man, shouting louder: SHOES!
Telephone guy, obviously amused: No, do you want a pair?
Drunk man, thrilled: YEAH, I’D LOVE A BEER! WHAT THE FUCK MAN, IT’S LIKE YOU READ MY MIIIIIIND.
My neighborhood, folks, where the number of shoes on the telephone wire across my building doubles every six months like a mathematical equation and plastered idiots wander about shouting about sheep at one in the afternoon.
I can see the repair guy from my bedroom window. I don’t think he’s ever been so glad in his life to be so far above the ground. Touch wood that he leaves the shoes alone. They’re very nice shoes, very comforting, high heels and wing tips hang among the more traditional battered sneakers. I’ve never added a pair out of an illogical fear of permanence, even though I’ve lived here five years now, but those are my neighborhood quirk, damn it, and he’d better not take any down.