Recycling Willy Loman – A Phone Book Rant
Does not want.
I approach my front door after a long and fruitful day of labor, and as my hand explores my pants pocket for the house keys, I see a bright yellow abnormality: a bag sitting on my doormat.
The shape and weight of the unrequested package is deduced automatically; my mind boils with fury at its contents. I turn around and see others, sitting patiently on the stoops of my neighbors and between mailboxes. The bags flutter in the autumn breeze, anchored by the weight of the tomb inside.
I cannot begin to describe the overwhelming disdain I possess for phone books. To me, their presence is the equivalent of a stranger leaving five pounds of trash on my door – trash that he expects me to recycle.
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