I'm working in the midst of the Great American Work Novel

Every day, when I arrive and depart work, I walk by a plus-sized consignment store. In the window there is a mannequin and the mannequin is missing a hand. I tried to take a picture but the glare on the window didn't accurately depict how creepy it is. I'm sure this second-hand shop got this mannequin second-hand. Last night I had two deeply disturbing dreams and one of them centered around this hand-less mannequin. Today when I walked by the store on my way home from work, I dropped my keys and as I bent over to pick them up, I could see straight up the sleeve on the hand-less arm. I think I will see that stub in my dreams for years to come. Here is the shop's sign. She has this picture above the door and on a sandwich board down the street.

we put Mom on the roof, just like Romney's dog

  

Every day I am sort of embarrassed for this woman. I went in the store once because I could spy rather large looking shoes from the door, and since I wear a a very manly and hard to find size 11, I never pass up the opportunity to look for cute shoes. Having met her, I can say she is very nice, but that sign is ridiculous.

I'm also convinced that a man who has an office in our building is also living in the building. He is always there. MW saw him getting out of a van. Our office shares a wall with the floor's bathroom. He has a very distinctive sounding walk and today I went to use the bathroom shortly after he left the bathroom himself. I found a razor and washcloth on the counter. A few minutes after I left the bathroom, I could hear him walk back to the bathroom and then back to his office. My curiosity got the better of me and I went and checked the bathroom The razor and cloth were gone.

The office building is a mixed bag of crazy. There is an insurance company, a kung-fu studio, the aforementioned thrift store, a guitar-lessons business, an Eastern-medicine massage parlor, a PTSD therapist, and a handful of other offices that are occupied but as of yet anonymous in their dealings.

Here is the scary part, the man I think is living in his office is the PTSD therapist. I would describe him as a cowboy Ronald Reagan meets Matt Foley meets Clint Eastwood in that he looks sort of like a cowboy Regan with the enthusiasm of Matt Foley and the high-wasted pants, furrowed brow, and scowl of Eastwood.

There is also a man who brings his two basset hounds. I'm sure he probably has a real job, but every now and then when I walk by his office, I swear he is in there playing World of Warcraft. I like to imagine he told his wife he works in an office but is really making money off Second Life.

Clearly I will be writing a novel or a sitcom or a reality show about this one day.

In the mean time, I'm going to find out what is behind all those other closed doors.