Gail, the phone sales expert across the cube, is about 175 cm tall and covers his shiny top with a fitted green cap to harbor a few degrees in the a.m. Once or twice a week Gail takes his lunch from the infamous “salad place” – a place where you enter feeling enlightened by natural greens and sprouts, beans and seeds natural cups and plates words and aprons natural registers organic tables lights and noise – where one sits behind the glass safely, fulfilled, freshly enlightened, feeling like a forest or seed in the forest or a leaf on the biggest tree in the biggest forest or feeling like an omnipresent tree standing tall in every forest around the world while peering out the spotless panes to the havoc and hernia-evoking hell aka reality all for the organic and enlightening price of $10.97; or $15 with the organic cookie and natural chips and fresh spring coke.
After consumption, bowel, and bail – lad scoops himself up cap and all and pockets his hands to feel his salad pennies, the 3 pennies in change. Upon exit he routinely strolls a block down, stopping before final return to the cube. Gail places the pennies atop last week’s pennies in a growing stack of pennies along a poverty-stricken ally brick wall within ants of a sleeping bag, within rats of soiled mattress, within a fragile brown arms-length of reach. Every week he returns to drop his 3 pennies. To see if anyone has made use of the money. Not even in front of beggars are the pennies touched. The pennies continue to pile.