Al in the alley

I stood in a sketchy alley behind a mostly unoccupied strip mall on the edge of a struggling desert town. I held a partially full trash bag. I had rung the buzzer, as the sign instructed, and now I was waiting, as the sign instructed. A security camera looked down at me.

I felt like I should have a code word, a high sign, and the name of my connection. “Stumpy sent me. I’m here with the goods.”

After a minute or two the latch rattled and the door opened. Instead of the armed thug I half expected, it was a pleasant woman who gladly accepted my bag and asked if I wanted a receipt.

“Nah, I’m good.”

The door was for donation drop-offs at the Sheltering Wings thrift store. The bag contained four pairs of jeans, six T-shirts, a flannel shirt, and a down vest. Clothing from before my cancer. Clothing that was now too large and had to make room for its replacement. I had no mattresses or box springs.