They weren’t really squatters, per se. He looked at it like it was payback, dividends from years of working shithole jobs in exhausting Wall Street firms. And it wasn’t so bad, better than jail. An interesting influx of dwellers. Late night poker games. Until she moved in. Until the chanting started. Until the first time he thought: perhaps I’m not part of the ninety-nine percent.
The lingering questions came in the form of water, piss, trees, green, trade. Everyone said live for the moment, but have you ever tried to do that? Forget about past, no such thing. Holidays? None. No religion either, except in some climactic nightmares. Here’s what lingers most of all- the smell. The uncertainty. C’mon, you can do it! Endure. Live with less. Mulch.
See, there was this guy named Santos. And everyone thought, hey, cut him some slack. He works; okay, seasonally…but still. Then, technicalities change, Santa’s sleighs are in disrepair. He sells off the reindeer one by one to Top Chef. Eventually, we’re all picking up his tab at the North Pole. Meanwhile, on the down low, Santa cut a deal with Microsoft, giving iTunes a run for their money.