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OpEdNews Op Eds    H2'ed 6/18/13

Postcard from the End of America: Philadelphia

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"I know because on the package, it said six ounces."

"Frozen sh*t?"

"No, man, I don't even have a fridge. It's this moist, microwavable sh*t."

"OK, OK, but how do you stop eating at three ounces? Why didn't you eat the whole damn thing if you were that hungry?"

"I don't need to eat that much. Look at your beer. Can you knock that down in one shot?"

"Yeah, sure."

"But I can't do that. My stomach wouldn't be able to handle it. I don't need to eat or drink that much. Some weeks, I only spend five bucks on food."

"That's ridiculous! What do you buy for five bucks?"

"You can always buy rice. Rice is cheap."

"You're right, rice is cheap, especially when you buy a huge bag, but do you ever shoplift, you know, like shove a can of tuna down your pants?"

"No, I have never done that."

When writing about someone, I must make sure I get everything right, down to the last detail, but with John, I don't have to fret as much, because he doesn't know how to use a computer. John won't be able to read what I'm writing. A man who can barely eat is not someone who will pay for wifi. There, too, John's ahead of the curve.

"How do you not know how to use a computer? What is there not to know?" And I made some typing motion on the bar.

"Ah, man, I just can't figure it out, but I don't miss it. Who cares. I don't have any tattoos either," and he showed me his untinted arms. Nodding towards a waitress sitting nearby, bent over her laptop, John continued, " Once she spent twenty minutes trying to teach me the computer, but I couldn't figure it out."

"She can't get off the computer, and you can't get on!"

After his two pint allotment, John slunk out of the bar. From Shelley, I then found out that he lives at the Parker Spruce, a residential hellhole that charges $250 a week, plus an extra 10 bucks since John owns a microwave. His bathroom, he shares with another tenant. This is a bum deal, obviously, but John has no choice since he has never been able to cough up enough for the security deposit of a regular apartment. A certain lethargy is also in play here, but it's hard to have initiative on three ounces of mushy spaghetti coated in some dodgy "meat" sauce.

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Linh Dinh's Postcards from the End of America has just been published by Seven Stories Press. Tracking our deteriorating socialscape, he maintains a photo blog.


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