“Maybe he figures to sell them for toilet paper.Is this crap for your own personal use?”
“He says yes.”
“And how do we know that?”
“I gotta affidavit.”
“Wise guy. Take off your clothes.”
“Yeah.Maybe he got dirty tattoos.”
They paw over his body probing his ass for contraband and examine it for evidence of sodomy.They dunk his hair and send the water out to be analyzed. “Maybe he’s got dope in his hair.”
Finally,they impound his suitcase; and he staggers out of the shed with a fifty pound bale of documents.
A dozen or so Recordities sit on the Old Court House steps of rotten wood. They watch his approach with pale blue eyes,turning their heads slow on wrinkled necks ( the wrinkles full of dust ) to follow his body up the steps and through the door. Inside, dust hangs in the air like fog, sifting down from the ceiling,rising in clouds from the floor as he walks. He mounts a perilous staircase-condemned in 1929. Once his foot goes through, and the dry splinters tear into the flesh of his leg.The stairscase ends in a painter’s scaffold, attached with frayed rope and pullies to a beam almost invisible in dusty distance. He pulls himself up cautiously to a ferris wheel cabin. His weight sets in motion hydraulic machinery ( sound of running water). The wheel moves smooth and silent to stop by a rusty iron balcony, worn through here and there like an old shoe sole. He walks down a long corridor lined with doors, most of them