Last Night
Last Night: Vote-by-Mail Conspiracy
Saturday night, I called 911 for the first time in my life.
I was walking home (a little drunk) from Charlie's on Broadway, where I had just eaten a full plate of fettuccine alfredo and half a plate of nachos, when I came across a blue postal service mailbox issuing thick smoke through the door of the mail slot and from under its bolts.
I stared at it. It was probably some kind of election week ballot burning conspiracy, I guessed.
"You should call 911," a man idling down the sidewalk said. So I did.
After I talked to the 911 operator, I remembered I left my backpack at Charlie's, so I ran back to get it. A gang of drag queens were yelling—one of them had just passionately announced he was voting for Dino Rossi.
When I passed again by the smoking mail box, five firefighters stood trying to solve this possibly metaphorical problem: How do you put out a fire inside a mailbox?
I was walking home (a little drunk) from Charlie's on Broadway, where I had just eaten a full plate of fettuccine alfredo and half a plate of nachos, when I came across a blue postal service mailbox issuing thick smoke through the door of the mail slot and from under its bolts.
I stared at it. It was probably some kind of election week ballot burning conspiracy, I guessed.
"You should call 911," a man idling down the sidewalk said. So I did.
After I talked to the 911 operator, I remembered I left my backpack at Charlie's, so I ran back to get it. A gang of drag queens were yelling—one of them had just passionately announced he was voting for Dino Rossi.
When I passed again by the smoking mail box, five firefighters stood trying to solve this possibly metaphorical problem: How do you put out a fire inside a mailbox?
