There are over two hundred different types of paper. Absalom-Curtex, where I proudly preside over the third salesman position, carries forty-two. Personally, I can’t stand the stuff, but I guess people don’t get into the paper business because they have an affinity for paper. People just stay where they fall, and if you get up at the end of your turn and happen to find yourself thirty-six years old, nursing a well-blooming beer belly and working a dead-end job that an autistic chimp could do, then it’s just tough shit and you have to deal.

            I woke up last Sunday at around eight-thirty, grabbed a pair of jeans and a wrinkled tee-shirt out of my dresser, and was out the door in ten minutes. I walked towards Clemson Street. I like it around there. They’ve got these street lights down there that really knock me out. Sometimes around this time of year they’ll dress up the lights with all kinds of tinsel and these fake pine boughs. I get a real kick out of that kind of stuff. Anyway, so I go walking towards Clemson, towards this Diner that’s pretty OK sometimes, and all the way I’m seeing these pigeons that are swarming around, in pretty big flocks, going after these bits of bread that are scattered all over. They’re really going at it, getting down each other’s throats about it and everything. It really kind of upset me a bit. That kind of stuff really makes me worry sometimes. The worst part was all these pigeons flying around were making about as much noise as I can imagine anything ever making. So, I get past where this bread is lying in the street and it starts to quiet down a bit. I get to Clemson, take a right, and see that the Diner is all covered in police tape and there’s about a million cops standing around, none of them really doing all that much. I go over to where a couple guys in hard hats are standing around and ask them what happened.

            “Robbery,” the smaller one says.

            “Some guys stood up the Diner?” I ask.

            “Look guy, I don’t know the whole goddamn story”.

            I guess I don’t really care all that much, like I said, the Diner really isn’t all that great. It’s just a place to go. I walk around the Diner a bit, and there’s all kinds of broken glass and other things lying around. It’s really getting to me a little bit. So I start thinking. I do a lot of thinking sometimes. I’m thinking about this old house that my family and I used to rent in Montana. We’d go up there some summers for a couple of weeks and hang around. It was a helluva nice place and my Dad and brother and I used to go fishing up there. And my mom would bake about the best goddamn poppy seed bread anyone’s ever had. I used to love it up there when I was a kid. Montana. Goddamn.

            So I keep walking and I’m not seeing a whole lot. They don’t have those decorations I was talking about out yet and it gets to me a bit, but I don’t really mind all that much. Clemson is still a pretty nice place to go walking. They’ve got these trees up there in these little metal cages. The trees are pretty small and all, but that’s probably mostly on account of these cages that they put around them. The trees are still pretty nice to look at though, even with the cages and all.

            So I keep walking and I come to this storefront that’s all lit up with corny Christmas decorations and little lights. There’s a big beige sign above the entrance that says “Clemson Travel”. I’ve never really spent much time in a travel agency before; so I decide I’ll go in and poke around a bit.

            I open the door and this little bell gets to ringing as I’m pushing the glass through the doorway. It’s goddamn repulsive how this bell is ringing and I’m about to explode when it finally loses momentum and stops. So I walk up to the front desk and there’s this woman sitting in a black chair that rolls around on these four little wheels. I ask her if they’ve got any pictures of Montana and that I’m thinking about planning a trip there.

            “We don’t arrange trips outside of state lines, sir. If you’d like help setting up a trip to another state you’ll have to contact another agency.”

            I can’t believe it. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Anyway I figure there isn’t much of anything that I can do about it so I thank the woman in the rolling chair and walk out the way I came, paying special attention to keeping those goddamn bells quiet this time.

            I’m starting to get pretty hungry so I decide to grab a bite to eat. I remember this bakery a couple blocks down Clemson and start walking towards it.

            As I’m walking towards the bakery this guy in a long black robe approaches me claiming that he “can save” me. It sounds like a pretty goddamn interesting proposal so I lend him a few minutes of my time.

            “The world is in its last days. You must purge yourself of your sins before the reckoning comes.”

            “I’m not perfect, but I’m certainly not a goddamn sinner,” I reply.

            “You have strayed from the path my son, but there is still hope for you yet. You too may join us in the renewed paradise, free of sin and non-belief.”

            “How do I get into this ‘renewed paradise’?”

            “You must atone, of course.”

            “Yeah? And how do you propose I do that?”

            “You must devote yourself to Jehovah. And after your death, if you have served him well, you will be resurrected and will join all of us in the renewed paradise.”

            “Well I don’t know about this, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I’m planning this trip to Montana and all. I just don’t know if atonement for my life’s sins is in the cards. I’ll tell you what though. I’ll think it over. How’s that sound?”

            I start walking away before this guy can get out his reply. Goddamn loonies. They’re everywhere, always trying to sell you this or that. Whether it’s eternal salvation or a goddamn microwave oven. Everyone has got something to push.

            I walk down Clemson a couple more blocks and find myself standing in front of the bakery. I open the door and walk up to counter, undisturbed, because of the bakery’s wise choice to not hang a bell. I keep thinking about these muffins that this place has these gigantic poppy seed muffins. They’ve got to be the most goddamn delicious thing that I have ever eaten.

            The clerk calls “next!” and I approach the counter.

            “A poppy seed muffin and a small coffee,” I say in a voice that seems much smaller than that of the clerk.

            “No more poppy seed today, buddy. The lemon-poppy seed tastes about the same though. At least, I can’t tell the difference.”

            “No, I don’t want a lemon. I want a poppy seed muffin.”

            “Sir, I’m sorry, but there are no more poppy seed muffins.”

            “What the hell kind of bakery are you running? I can’t even get my goddamn breakfast.”

            I turn towards the door and hastily make my way out onto the street. I can’t get over this bakery. All I wanted was some goddamn breakfast.

            I turn back up Clemson and start making my way back to my flat. I see the guy in the black robe across the street, but he doesn’t see me. I walk past the travel agency and look inside to the woman in the rolling chair. Her gaze doesn’t move from the mound of paper work in front of her. I walk past the trees and as I get close to my apartment I start looking for those goddamn obnoxious pigeons, but I can’t seem to find them. I look down at the skid marked street and see all these bits of bread scattered about, but no goddamn pigeons. I don’t know why, but I can’t help wondering about these pigeons. I get that way sometimes and I’ll get caught up on one thing and lose track of what’s really going on.

I get to my flat and I am about to ascend the decrepit wooden staircase to my front door when Ms. Jones, the old lady who lives below me jumps out from behind a bush.

“That’s him!”

            Two well-built cops appear from behind her.

“Jonah McKenzie?” the one on my left says.

“Yes, what’s going on?”

“Mr. McKenzie, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

“What’s this all about?”

“All of your questions will be answered when we get downtown.”

“What’s downtown?”

They’ve got me in this real dingy cell with no windows and only a small rectangle of light near the top of the heavy steel door. They are required by law to let me out for five hours a day, but I don’t mind staying in the cell all that much. I can finally get some goddamn peace and quiet. Plus, whenever I spend any time around the yard I get these real dirty looks from the other guys.

Ms. Jones took longer than I thought to call the cops. I messed up Samantha pretty bad. Not as bad as some of the others, but most people don’t wait around counting their goddamn button collection after something like that happens. But hey, to each his own.

I guess that I haven’t been doing so hot lately, but it’ll all change when I get up to Montana for a bit, and it could be worse. At least I’m not bickering over scraps of bread, or trapped in a steel cage. And I can certainly thank god that I’m not going around in a goddamn ridiculous black robe telling strangers that the world is coming to an end.