—Scuse me, friend?

—You don’t know me.

—Spare some change?

—Get a job!

—Already got one.

—Begging for handouts?

—All due respect, don’t believe everything you think.  I’m just moonlighting.

—Right.

—Everybody knows professors make peanuts.

—And?

—We all gotta make ends meet.

—Seriously?  You’re a teacher?

—Is that so hard to believe?

—Ph.D. and everything?

—Framed on my office wall.

—In what field?

—Step over here for a minute and lemme school you.

—Nice grocery cart.  If you’re trying to look the part, I can tell you it’s working.

—Call it a mobile home, Clark.

—Wait, how’d you know my name?

—Lucky guess.

—Are you one of those gypsy mind-readers? 

—I don’t have a crystal ball, if that’s what you’re asking.

—But you do your shopping at Thrift Town, I see. 

—Gotta dress to impress!

—And I hate to say it, but you smell the part, too.

—That’s just l’eau de rue:  the perfume of the streets.  Doesn’t get any more authentic.

—You can say that again!

—You wanna get the straight dope, you gotta go where the action is.  That’s what you call ethnographic study.  Fieldwork.   

—So what’s with all the junk?

—What junk? 

—All that dross, crap, bric-a-brac.  Mounded up there in your, uh, mobile home.

—Under the tarp?

—Bingo.  Seems to me your life would be easier without all those—

—Collectables?

—If you like.

—Well, I don’t know, Clark.  Would your life be better without all your status symbols?

—You’re barking up the wrong tree, sister.

—Me and you ain’t kin.  But take your watch.  Looks like a Tök-Jaar from here.

—Sands of Time limited edition chronograph model.

—What’s that go for?  Couple thousand?

—Five.

—Damn.

—It’s low-end.  They run up to seventy-five grand.

—Now, Clark, that’s just stupid.  And what about your fancy suit?

—Tailored worsted.

—Or your car.  Probably drive a Geier Motorenwerk, right?

—Diamanten, Mondays and Thursdays.  Lynxx, Tuesdays and Fridays.  Alba Andretti on Wednesdays.  Nikola on the weekends. 

—What’s today again?

—Thursday.

—And where’d you park?

—Just around the corner.

—That’s what I’m talking about, Clark. 

—You like cars?

—I’m liable to start real soon.

—I’m a real car guy.  Love the speed.  Love the power.  Love the prestige. 

—It shows, Clark.  You’re beaming.  And that feeling you got right now?  That’s the same way I feel about this collection of mine.

—One man’s trash, as they say.

—My belongings ain’t trash, Clark, and I ain’t a man, in case you hadn’t noticed.

—No offense.

—Says you.

—It’s just a manner of speaking.

—You wanna hear what I got to say, you best bite your tongue next time. 

—Well, Professor, think I’m gonna have to get moving, time and all, but—

—Know what that is, Clark?

—Uh, well, if I’m not mistaken, it looks like underwear.

—Skimpy lingerie.  Item No. 53, silk-and-lace thong, to be precise.

—You’ve got your junk—

—Collectables!

—Itemized?

—How you think I climbed to the top of the academic heap, Clark?  Wasn’t through no sloppy research methods, I guarantee you.

—Of course not.

—This thong’s a symbol of marital fidelity.  Or, rather, lack thereof.  Discovered in my connubial bed not eight months after entering into holy matrimony.  And, in case you’re wondering, it ain’t mine.

—That’s bad business.

—No lie, Clark.  Now over here we got—

—Hang on a minute.  Did something in there move?

—Not that I’m aware.

—I could’ve sworn I saw something move.  Brown flash type deal.  You got a pet?  Dog or cat, ferret or weasel?

—No pets.  Now like I was saying, Items No. 1 and 73.

—Flags?

—Uh-huh.  Stars and stripes on one hand, symbolizing freedom, equality, and justice. 

—And the rainbow one?

—Antidote for all the b.s.  Represents the failure of our hopes, dreams, and ideals.  Reminds us empty rhetoric don’t get us nowhere.

—That’s a real downer, Professor.  Got anything more upbeat?  What about all those magazines?

—You like pretty women, huh?

—Who doesn’t?

—Know who that is?

—I’d sure like to!

—Take a good look, Clark.

—She’s a beauty, alright. 

—Thank you very much.  You’re too kind.

—Wait, what?

—Uh-huh.

—That’s you?

—In a former life.

—All these covers!  Sable, Onyx, Kohl.  You musta been hot stuff.

—Forget it, Clark.  Don’t mean nothing.

—Then why keep them?  In these plastic sleeves?  In this plastic accordion folder?  They must mean something to you.

—Items 27-37, monuments to falsehood.

—How’s that?

—Untruths, Clark.  Lies.

—I’m not sure I—

—It’s a capitalist thang you wouldn’t understand.

—You’re wrong there.  How do you think my wallet got so fat?  Speaking of which…did I happen to hand it to you earlier?  It doesn’t…seem to be—

—Then call it the false promise of youth, if you like.

—Youth is wasted on the young!

—The dead blossom of success.

—That’s pretty dark.

—The hollow heart of prestige.

—I beg to differ, Professor.  The clothes make the man.  Also, his bank account, sports car, luxury watch, mansion, etc.  Prestige is everything.

—That’s just sad, Clark.

—To the victor go the spoils!

—You’re a—

—Woah!  What the hell was that?!

—I didn’t see anything.

—Something small and brown just flashed into view, grinned, then disappeared.

—Oh, that?

—You got something living in there?

—That’s just Uncle Remus.

—Your uncle lives in your, uh, mound of collectables?

—Ain’t none of your concern, Clark.  And that’s just his name, by the way.  He ain’t really my uncle. 

—That’s effed up, Professor.

—Hey, look at this.  You’re gonna love it.

—A book?

—Not just any book.

—Except for Bull Market Weekly, I don’t have much time for reading.  Speaking of which, time and all…Hey, where’s my watch? 

—Spozed to be on your wrist, right?

—Strange.  Did I take it off to show you?

—Not to my recollection.

—Odd.

—So this book, Clark.  Check it out.

—That’s my hometown, Professor.

—It’s just a painting—and a reproduction of one, at that.  Ceci n’est pas une pipe, as they say. 

—You know what I mean.  Rockwell, Mass.  Man, I haven’t been back there in years. 

—Your family must miss you.

—Don’t be so sure.  But I always liked old What’s-His-Name who painted these pictures.  He got it right.

—Item No. 117, The Art of Anders Drywall.

—That’s his name!

—It’s a requiem for the American Dream.

—Now wait just a—

—Also, a complete nostalgia trip.

—You’ve got it all—

—You can never go home.

—I won’t argue with that, but—

—But what, Clark?

—I just saw him again!

—Why are you whispering?

—Uncle Remus. 

—Ignore him. 

—He stared right at me.  Big, toothy grin.  Funny look in his eyes.

—Now for Item No. 67, Armadillo-skin cowboy boots, men’s.

—What happened to them?

—They’re broken in.

—All beat up like that.

—You oughta see the cowboy I took them off!

—Seriously, where’d they come from?

—Won them playing Texas Hold ’Em.

—I didn’t take you for a card sharp, Professor.

—I enjoy a friendly game from time to time, though I try not to make a habit of it.  Anyway, consider the boots a gift.

—You’re the one out here begging, not me.

—This ain’t charity, Clark. 

—Thanks, but I’ve got my handstitched Stronzo—

—You’re gonna need them.     

—Wait, what happened to my loafers?

—See what I mean?

—Heh heh heh heh heh!

—What the hell was that?

—Uncle Remus has a quirky sense of humor.

—And what’ve you got there—a sword?

—Item No. 91, cutlass.

—What’s it for?

—Protection.

—From what?

—These are the streets, Clark.  You never can tell.

—Somebody after you?

—We all got enemies.

—That’s not untrue.

—But like them other things, it’s both itself and a symbol of something else.  Same for Item No. 93, dagger.

—What’s it represent?

—Many things…but mostly betrayal.

—That’s the stereotype.

—Pulled it outta my back, you see.

—Of the professoriate, I mean.  It’s dirty business, climbing that ladder to the top, right?  Same in my world, only we’ve got mountains of money at stake.  What’s in it for you?

—The hollow heart of prestige, Clark.

—We’ve been here before, haven’t we?

—What goes around, comes around.

—Can’t tell if that’s a threat or an omen.

—Could be both.

—Well, what can I say, Professor?  Look at the time!  It’s been nice talking to you, but I’m sure I’ve got somewhere to be, board meeting, golf game, wine bar.

—You’re going like that?

—Like what?

—Don’t you feel a draft?

—Now that you mention it.  Did I take off my jacket and tie?  Also, my shirt and cufflinks and tie tack?  And my alligator-skin belt with the 14-kt. gold buckle, along with the tailored pants they were holding up?

—It’s possible.

—Is it?

—Well, the afternoon’s heating up.  Who could blame you?

—Guess that makes sense, in a way.

—Mind if I get a picture before you go?  Boxers, wife beater, and cowboy boots:  you’re a sight to see! 

—Hold up:  Is that my phone?

—We must have the same one.

—Some coincidence.

—One, two, three:  cheese!

—Got everything you need?

—And then some!

—Heh heh heh heh heh!

—Is he touched?

—Why are you whispering again?

—In the head?

—Don’t go badmouthing Uncle Remus.  He may be small and a bit, shall we say, eccentric, but me and him make a good team.

—That’s probably true, Professor. 

—But now we gotta get moving. 

—I don’t doubt it.

—Stay outta trouble.

—Best of luck with your research, Professor.

—Go buy yourself a new suit.  You’ve earned it!

J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, The Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize (three times) and the Best of the Net Award. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MPhil in English from the University of Oxford, and he teaches fiction writing at Pacific Northwest College of Art at Willamette University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.