Restless, I jump out of the apartment, walk through darkly warm streets, alive with an unusual carnival sort of air. Run into a man leaning out of a doorway, restaurant, with waiters and workers cleaning up after closing or before opening. He draws from a cigarette, and asks me if I want a job. He takes me inside, talking in a carefully elegant, slow sort of speech. He is hispanic, sharply dressed and with distinguished features. I agree and am flattered by the gesture because I realize he is a shady character, most likely mob-related. He shows me what he wants me to do today. There is a game, or amusement, in his restaurant which involves a large room made of plexi-glass that has two holes —one at each end— and is filled with M&Ms. The object of the game is to let two little children race through the candy and at the same time pick their pockets. He has me reach around inside and I find 10 and 20 dollar bills and a watch on my first handful. I realize and appreciate the under-handedness of this and set to work.
Back at home, I shun all contact, but watch the sky outside grow ominous and dark, shades of brown and orange dominating my view through the windows, overtaking any buildings that were there before. The second time I go to work, he has me sloshing around through some material with the consistency of oatmeal, picking up trash that was left in it. I can still feel the aura of illicit functions—I imagine gangsters with their girls dancing, rich fools letting the pockets of their children be pilfered by the M&M game, wild sexual escapades, where participants shed all stitches of clothing and fuck freely over a wild roaming field of friends and patrons—but the garbage collecting really gets me down. I feel used, like I was led by a carrot dangling from a string. Now I regret hooking up with this mysterious man.