...They'd looked me up. Images and words. Shannon stood behind him, looking at the screen, pointing, "There." Picture after picture of me. In Rolling Stone with my baby on my hip. Heavy eyeliner and slip strap off shoulder, torn tights, and our girl in my arms looking plump and whole. Album covers and tour shots. Shannon told Pak the story. And then, later, she told me about the telling. Now I clean their toliets. But that's not the real work.
Twenty-seven jars of spaghetti sauce. Fourteen plastic squeeze bottles of ketchup. Eighteen tubes of tomato paste. Fifty-eight cans of soup. Twenty boxes of Ritz crackers. Thirty-six cans of tuna. Seven microwaves, un-opened, sealed in boxes, stacked in the entryway. Another five microwaves, in identical boxes, stacked in the closet meant for coats. Years of supermarket tabloid magazines and towers of unread newspapers stacked, creating a maze as soon as you enter the front door. Drawers full of coupons, receipts, and magazine clippings mostly about the lives of large families on television reality shows. Thousands of Bic pens.
If you'd like to read the complete story, you can find "More" here.