The other day I found an Indianhead nickel in a tortoise shell. The day before that I found a string of pearls in a tin of Hilltop pork and beans; and the day before that a packet of Wringers’ chewing gum in an old shoe. Previous to those two days I found a scout’s woggle in a Tankard gin bottle. I don’t like the smell of junipers and beetroot or mulberry so I left the scout’s woggle where I found it, in the old shoe, and hightailed it home, the Indianhead nickel jingling in my pant’s pocket. When I got home the Hasidic butcher was on our front porch; he had a fistful of Eat More candy wrappers in one hand and a bundle of hockey cards cinched together with an elastic band, the Jacques Plant card on the top, in the other. He smelt faintly of lighter fluid and Crisco and his face was all red and blotchy, his right eye half-closed and prickly looking. I lost my Zippo the day before I found the Indianhead nickel in the tortoise shell. The day before that the corner store burned to the ground. And the day before that I found a Zippo in some old guy’s coat pocket, stuck to a Wringer’s chewing gum wrapper and a hard mint.
