I arranged my cards last night so that I wasn’t the big winner. I guess you’d say I came in second, if poker were a sport where one can come in second.
When I walk into Beefcake’s new headquarters—it sprung up literally overnight in the only sparkling part of the downtown of the suburb where I live—I walk over to the desk where he is sitting and lay down two hundred fifty two-dollar bills.
“Buy some staplers for the new HQ.”
Beefcake leans across the desk and kisses me right on the lips in front of three volunteers.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.