Looking like a bible salesman
who lost the key to his storage locker,
I lie prone on the floor of the Manhattan Min-Storage.
Lisa told me to ferret the key out with a flat ruler. It didn't work! And we needed to get in! Can you tell I'm opening this post like the beginning of a badly written situation comedy?
Feeling like a cartoon character, I got prone on the floor vainly fishing out the key to our storage locker. Am I a bible salesman trying to get my Gideon bibles? Or maybe I'm a bootlegger and this maximum-security storage locker holds my gin. Or maybe it's a year's worth of three-hundred-paged-glossy-covered coupon books —those artless tomes filled with fifty percent discounts for edible arrangements and vacation cruises. Mostly sold by high schoolers raising money for track and field. Or some other kind of extra-curricular activity.
Americans like to fill in their own stories. So I won't explain in detail why I'm prone on the floor fishing vainly for a key (that was never to be found).
Lesson learned: The tummy likes a cold dry concrete floor to lay its head.
Image Source: Lisa Helfrich