Dear Wigleaf,

My neighbor Craig surprised me from behind again last week. I was stapling bromeliads to the mailbox, trying to gussy up the mailbox, which had previously been a pretty homely mailbox, when Craig began telling me (from behind!) how he's the victim of a toothbrush conspiracy, in which the toothbrush industry has banded with the other industries to sell him medium-bristled toothbrushes packaged as soft-bristled toothbrushes in an effort to tear his mouth a new ass. I didn't ask to see his mouth, but that did not impede Craig from showing it. He stuck his weird, long middle fingers in there and pulled his cheeks wide. His gums were absolutely mangled.

I know there's no toothbrush conspiracy, but I told Craig he might be onto something. I asked if he had any horsehair lying around. He said he didn't. Better get you some horsehair, I told him, and some bamboo, maybe balsa—no, bamboo is better. It's high time you made your own toothbrushes. It's time you got off the grid. They're rearing to destroy you, Craig, mouth-first.

Wigleaf, just as there's no toothbrush conspiracy, I know there's no off-the-grid, either. I know Craig, the mailbox, and I remain of the same unmeshable mesh that is the block, neighborhood, town, country, and so on, but over the last few days, Craig has not surprised me from behind. He's busy in his shed, making toothbrushes, and this has brought to me an undeniable joie de vivre.

Charlie




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Read CS's story.

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