A story from the view of my purse.
It was summer and my owner and her then husband were traveling with friends to San Francisco and Napa valley.
Naturally, my owner got on the plane and shoved me under a dirty airplane seat. I tried to avoid old gum and half eaten bags of peanuts.
We arrived and I was swept through the airport, the rental car line, the grocery store, and a park.
The whole city smelled like ocean and piss.
I was drug all over that pisshole of a city that my owner seemed to be enjoying.
“It’s the crooked street! These are the best oysters!”
Like, who cares?
Not uncommon, the owner ended up stopping and talking outside a bar to people on the street. Talking, talking, talking.
She rummages through me, finds a cigarette, and drops me on the street under a street lamp.
More talking talking talking, and then, she just walks off.
Hello? Really? I hold the money. She needs me. Where the fuck did she go? Do these people she was talking to even have homes. Oh God, this city smells.
Where is she? Where did she go? This is no Aspen. I don’t feel safe. I feel dirty.
After what seems like days the owner runs up, scoops me up and starts thanking God and digging for the poor wallet.
“It’s all here!” She exclaims.
At that moment I knew I nearly escaped death.