Sample Copy

This is the curious story of a bumbling popper who unluckily bumbled into a bit of luck.

It was a cold day in the hot city. It was raining faster than the sewers could manage. The familiar scent of lilacs that always hung in the air was overtaken by the putrid smell of raw sewage. This reminded Dave of that singular unfortunate time on a farm when he found himself knee-deep in five feet of pig manure—Dave was a very tall man, you see.
The pig manure incident was only one of many, many such unfortunate events that seemed to plague his very existence.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there!”, he proclaimed aloud.
The elderly woman on the park bench across from him gasped. She was startled by Dave’s sudden outburst in an otherwise unoccupied drenched city park.
Dave looked directly at the old lady for an extended amount of time before finally whispering, “Do you have any Grey Poupon?” in a slow and creepy voice.
His intention was to scare her off, since he only wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He wanted only to sit and wallow in the pouring rain about where life has taken him after suffering repeated humiliating defeats day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade, for 42 years.
He had no umbrella. No jacket. No shoes. His blue and red paisley cotton t-shirt clinged to his rotund body like cellophane on a hot bowl.
The old woman, comfortable under her transparent vinyl umbrella, stared back at him without flinching. Dave locked eyes with the woman. He no longer had anything to lose. He would only gain the solitude he so longed for.
So, he doubled down, “I said,” he whispered again, “Do you have any Grey Poupon?” This time he managed to add a rigid growl to his voice.
The old lady stared back at him for quite a long time before opening the large purse that sat on her lap and routing around for a minute or so.
Dave leaned back in the bench and watched the old lady thrust her entire arm in the bag. Most likely a can of mace, he thought.
Before long, the old lady pulled out a small yellow jar.
“Yes. As a mater of fact, I do,” she said with a smile, “And a couple of hotdogs to go with it, too.”
With that she reached into her bag once more and produced what appeared to be two hotdogs on buns. Dave was stunned.

The rain stopped just then, and the sunset—previously hidden by the pounding rain—broke through the clouds and cast a beautiful shimmer of orange and purple upon both benches.
Dave stood up, walked over to the old lady, and sat down beside her. She handed him a hotdog as she flashed him a slow smile.
He smiled back at her as he reached out for the hotdog. He held it in his hand for a moment and then looked back at her and said, “This hotdog is full of lint, melted lipstick, and covered in something extraordinarily sticky. Also, has this been in your purse since 1951? Because, it’s rock hard and green.”
The old lady smiled wider at him. He smiled back.

-By The Recordist