Day 12
The new town I have to work in, as it turns out, sucks. The entire city is a gnarled clusterfuck of twisted streets, dead ends, and cul-de-sacs, none of which are properly numbered. Almost none of the homes have numbers, but they all have mailboxes. The numbers on the mailboxes, however, are written in either charcoal or crayon, and are all faded beyond legibility. A typical series of houses will be listed thusly: 1121, 1119, 1140, 1402, etc, with odds and evens on the same side of the street, with no attempt at coherence. I see an old black man with a long white beard carving something (folk art?) and my first pair of abandoned mens' underwear—they'd been wadded up and stuffed into a dented mailbox. And I will have to come back tomorrow.
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