Dale the salesman

Dale is a grizzled old geezer who lives just a stone’s throw from my own one-bedroom flat. He appears very desperate to sell me stuff. So far this afternoon, he’s offered me his computer printer, and a telephone shaped like a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

My God, where is he getting the idea that I’m the guy with all the cold hard cash? And why is he coming after me with more stuff to sell, as if I am holding out on him?

It’s not like I’m living like a sultan surrounded by shapely belly dancers. I’m trying to hang onto my money. I figure with what I have on hand, I should be able to pay Thursday’s rent even if my penultimate Census paycheck comes in at an anemic $300 and change.

I feel bad for him. I really do. He doesn’t make being freshly unemployed from the US Census Bureau very easy. And nor does Santander Consumer, who collected $250 just six days ago. They’re getting on my cell phone with a vengeance, trying to get my car payments back on track. They care not one whit for my rent.

I need to get to bed. I need to be up at 3:00 AM for an inventory count.

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