filthy jerry and the inefficacy of communication in light of rent hikes (27/30)

filthy jerry doesn't want to read your deep personal stories. he is too busy washing, trying to get clean from his own. there was a time when every wall he touched was pasted with pages from zines, church bulletins, bar napkins, weekly personals, photos of the sun. it was hardly sanitary, but he got his nickname for other reasons. the walls changed, collections grew and dropped and now there is nothing but paint. children run past him and try to put marbles in his hands. dogs try to lick his face. men without teeth put their hand on his shoulder so he can't walk away politely. filthy jerry is only polite half of the time, sometimes running between park trees, between closing bodegas and opening juice bars. he has heard it all and he has stopped listening, the visions of voices peeled off his walls everyday through his mind and the packed boxes; numbers remain the same but contents diminish. the men at the goodwill await his visit, every six, nine, twenty months. more mementos, the great idea he was trying to capture peeled, pieces of it in different states, or in his house, but far too heavy, soggy now. running from a chatty busdriver, he runs into someone with a cardboard sign. "free hugs." no thanks man, but I'll take the sign when you're done.