Your britches, now subway contraband

The proprietor of Languor Management: nonprofit writer — or terrorist?

The cop pulled out my laptop looked it up and down and asked, “What’s this for?”

“It’s a computer.” I was trying to be helpful.

His eyes narrowed and his lip curled on the right side again. He thought I was mocking him! “I mean, why do you have a computer with you?”….

“There’s a change of clothes in this bag. Why?” He lifted up a pair of dark-green corduroys, a blue button down office shirt, a t-shirt, some boxer shorts and socks…. Now they were piled on the filthy platform floor. Up to this point, my underwear has never been lying on the floor of the subway. They had been my favorite pair — dark green with gold chevrons — and though clean, now they looked about as sordid as a used condom that had been discarded on the street.

“They’re for work. I might not come home tonight,” I answered.

“You might not come home? Why don’t you know? What are you doing?”


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