I look around to see if there are security cameras, that I might submit a video of the park to the professional parallel parkers' association for prizes or honorary membership.
I bring coffee when I travel now. My beans and a grinder, and my Hario V60.
The most subtle of my creations, the Columbo sandwich solidifies my legacy. It is made with generous slices of cheddar cheese and summer sausage on a dinner roll spread with mayonnaise. It sounds a bit base, I know,
I'm excited to use my screwdriver, but– I've learned this from my Dad– you have to curse a bit.
I'm walking through a building on campus where there are workers doing renovations. A fellow is singing as he polishes the floor. "Careful," he sings, making eye contact, "sharp bits on the ground.
People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.
"How ribald!" he says again joyfully, apparently I had misheard him. "I didn't expect such ribaldry from you."
More than just pretending he doesn't see me, he wants me to know he is pretending.
