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THE "JERID" CHRONICLES
A few years ago, I endured
one of the more miserable months of my life working the graveyard shift
at a Venice, CA Kinkos. Venice is famed across the nation for its rollerblading
airheads, pistol-packin' gangbangers, and howling street prophets, and
in the dead of night - when everything else is closed and the streets are
cold and lonely - every single one of these characters would come rolling,
banging, and howling into the Kinkos on Lincoln Blvd. In a misguided attempt
to soothe this potentially volatile situation, the management of Kinkos
would pipe in a tape that featured two or three syrupy songs, playing in
an endless loop. We're talking Celine Dion, every thirteen minutes. Kinkos
at 3 a.m. was proof that ours is a godless cosmos.
The job did have one tiny perk;
every so often, I would discover some delightfully strange documents left
behind on the copiers. The following is one of my favorites, a tale of
love-gone-wrong that I call...
The
Jerid Chronicles.