One day Griswold thought about the life he knew until his head was so filled with it that he wanted to share his vision with others. He wrote it up as a story and sent it off to a literary magazine, using the shelter as his return address. Six months later the story came back with a printed rejection slip. Griswold read the slip and wondered why it took six months to find out his story was not suitable. Never daunted, however, he tried another magazine. Eight months later the same slip came back. These people must live strange lives, Griswold thought. I'm writing about human beings but that's not suitable for them. Never daunted, he brought some bottles back to the store to get money for postage, and, after nipping a couple envelopes from the shelter, sent his story off again, all to the same effect. He did this six more times until, daunted, he decided he'd try a place that claimed they specialized in personal replies. Off the story went, and after waiting the usual six months, one night the bald guy who had the night shift at the shelter said with a smirk, "Hey, Griswold, you musta died and gone to heaven, 'cause there's a letter here for ya." With trembling hands Griswold opened up the envelope to read the personal reply. It was short, sweet and to the point: it said, "Get lost, pal."
One day after Griswold had given up sending his story out for biannual visits, he chanced to catch a glimpse of himself in a store window and couldn't help noticing that there was a bald guy staring back at him. He thought to himself, "If there's one thing in life you have to be leery of, Griswold ole buddy, it's bald guys." So he decided to take the world's advice. He got lost. ˚
A BREACH OF DECORUM