A Man Who Bought Breasts
I’m willing to pay for it all, whatever it is. I’ve got money stashed in cigar tins buried in the backyard. I’ve got a spade with a sharp point that I used to dig the holes to bury the tins in and that I’ll use to dig them up again. I’ve got a map under my mattress of the location of each tin with color-coded Xs indicating the amount of money each contains.
I’m ready to buy. Apples and oranges and fast cars. Designer drugs and virtual realities. Love, if I can find it on Craig’s List and the price is right. Out-of-print books and illustrated pornography. Religious icons and breast implants.
No, I’m not thinking of having a sex change, how much would that cost? I’m just curious about breasts. I want to feel myself up at night and have an argument with myself in the morning. I want to look in the mirror and say, “You don’t love me anymore.” Then I’ll dig up a cigar tin and go on a three-day bender in Seattle.
But that’s a crazy idea. What would my work crew think? Would they still respect me? And my customers, would they stop doing business with me? I’d be poor as a church mouse in no time. I’d have nothing to fall back on but the tins, and what happens once the last tin is empty? I’d be a broken man with breasts standing alone in a backyard full of holes.