Here begins the saga of the pajamas letter.
One evening several weeks ago, I stopped by the Wells Fargo branch at 17th Avenue and Broadway to deposit the considerable amount of money I regularly make as a gainfully employed writer. Unfortunately, the deposit-envelope receptacle next to the machine appeared to be empty. Desperate to start earning a 0.15 percent interest rate on my money as soon as possible – that shit builds up, you know – I reached deep into the slot, hoping to find an errant deposit envelope crammed near the bottom. I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I did pull up this:
“How unusual!” I thought. “Could someone have mistaken the ATM for a mailbox?” Possibly there was money inside or, better yet, drugs. Maybe this was a special ATM where people could deposit and earn interest on their drugs! I wondered who the letter was for – until I flipped it over.