Anonymous Voyeur

Something compels me to pick up little scraps wherever I go, little glimpses into the minds of other people: dropped grocery lists, discarded exams, misplaced photographs, forgotten fortune cookie fortunes. I take them home and put them in a box in my bedroom; I like to think that whoever the owner is, wherever they go, whatever they do, however long they remain in this world, they existed. I can prove it. I might not know their name or face, but I have some little piece of them that showed how they passed the time on a Friday afternoon in November 2003.

Yesterday I was headed into Wal-Mart on an errand to pick up some curtain rods. As I passed the trash cans by the front door, I spotted a slip of paper on the ground. I picked it up and glanced at it, initially displeased at the fact that it was nothing more than a receipt. I usually prefer handwritten things; if I kept every receipt somebody littered, I'd need to replace the box with a foot locker.

Anyway, I decided to keep this receipt, mostly because it listed only two purchases: Oreos and condoms.

I wish I had been the cashier during that transaction.