My neighbor Gretchen worked as a ballet dancer at a prestigious art center in the city. I could never bring myself to admit my secret crush on her, but I made enough nervous small talk to get to know quite a bit about her.
And on that warm summer morning, it was an absolute surprise to see wearing a sanitation worker uniform collecting the trash from my curb. She was doing it with the sort of grace and elegance that made me wonder if it was some sort of performance art piece.
“What’s going on, Gretchen?” I asked, trying to invoke our usual small talk.
She replied with what sounded like a mix of a snarl and a grunt but still delivered in her typically sweet voice, “Who the hell is Gretchen?”
I fumbled through some things that probably weren’t words like “um” or “uh” before Gretchen’s body spoke again.
“I’ve been collecting trash on this street for like 20 years and you don’t even know my name?” Gretchen’s body said, “It’s Anthony! Maybe you should try saying hello to some of the schmucks who do your dirty work around here!”
“Um...hello...Anthony,” I managed to say to Gretchen’s body. It was weird, but Anthony didn’t seem all that away he was now even in Gretchen’s body or take too much notice to the graceful way he was now moving...
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