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The Tom Thumb is right down the hill from my apartment. Connected to it is a

gas station on the corner. With your Tom Thumb card you get 3 cents off each gallon of gas, so I let the thin, red bar read the serial number on the back and punch the Regular Unleaded key. The read out says "Thank you Palani Shooshoo," the name Shahed had written down on the membership paperwork, and I sit back down in the car to listen to the Jealous Sound.

I had spent the day in jeans and a t-shirt, rummaging through issues of AHA

journals to find continuity issues, and I didn't feel it was all that important to change before leaving for the grocery store. Gathering up my food and food preparation products I bee-lined for the empty 5-items or less check out line. She asked me for my card as I passed my keys to her in between the items she scanned. She then told me about how she likes to go to...some place. "Oh yeah," I responded not having any clue what she was talking about. "But I never walk out of there any richer." I smiled remembering the shirt I was wearing: "I'M A SLOT JUNKIE / CASTAWAYS / HOTEL/CASINO / Las Vegas". "Who does?" We laughed. I didn't want to tell her that I had never gambled, that it was just a shirt, that it was given to me by someone who I didn't really like very much, so I just played along. Telling her that I never win anything, but like the thrill of it all. She agreed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Precht." "Thank you."

The three women who make up the "sales team" of the complex sat at three

desks - the far right, on the phone; the middle, the one who had until previously had a red nosed cold; and the far left, who had rented Payam and I the apartment. The middle one asked me if she could help me with something. "Yes..." as I turned and pointed at the sass-girl to the left, "I accidentally dropped my rent check in the outgoing mail slot." It wasn't a big deal, I knew it. The complex was full of people who had probably, several times, done the same thing and, probably, ignored their mistake. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it. They usually bring those in the next day." She moved some papers about her desk and made some sweeping motions with the mouse in her right hand, "Well, I never said I was very smart."

Stepping out of my car I held the rent check in an envelope in my right hand.

There was a man in his mid- to late-twenties standing with his mail on the newspaper stand, rifling though. Dashing junk into the trash can to his right. He looked up, and I shuffled toward my postbox, dunking the envelope into the outgoing mail slot. I stopped immediately after, knowing full well that the distraction can caused this. I backpedaled to make sure I couldn't fish the envelope out of the slot and red-faced toward the apartment's postbox, key in hand. Bills.

Grocery List:

Two sacks of bread

Box of Cheerios

Garlic Salt

Aluminum Foil

Lettuce