I could always hear him before I saw him. Gus rode a motorized scooter. Not sure if he needed it but he was far too lazy of a person to walk if there was another option.
It was the same every Saturday. The market was my outlet for selling my growing collection of oversized junk. I’d collect all week and sell on Saturdays. Since I’ve been out I realized I couldn’t stay away from sales. That’s what I know. Plus, it’s an honest career. Can’t say the same of what I sold in the very same streets in prior years. The market is like night and day from the life I knew before.
Instead of junkies its hipsters waiting to uncover something strange to add to their collection of obscurities helping to define their undying need to be different. After the perfect pitch and a fabricated informal backstory I reel them in my booth, tell more of my perfectly pitched tale, and then count their cash.
Gus loves to ride over to my booth and give me headaches in front of my customers. I guess it’s his way of pushing my buttons, ensuring that I’ve been rehabilitated and won’t snap. Little does he know I do my dirt in the dark.
Gus also claims the dog shit in the courtyard came from Max. However, he can’t prove it. So I won’t be scooping that load of shit. No sir not me.