The Adventures of Sly Danny
Volume One, Number Two

Whoever was watching me and passing along the details of my personal fashion choices to psychologists of world reknown, he wasn't easy to spot. And anyway, that was months ago -- I didn't feel like I needed to worry about him any more. Why be paranoid?

I did wonder about the pizza-faced kid with the caucasian afro though. The kid might know something; someone obviously paid him to toss the Journal at me. I shrugged it off and headed to the car wash.

Business was good at the car wash that day. Not that I cared. Eight dollars an hour was all I cared about. But it was good to be busy, because when it was slow the other employees would start up with the jokes. Often they were aimed at me.

"Dan man! How 'bout we dye your hair blond? Then we could call you 'Goldilocks!' The chicks would dig it, baby!" I replied that my mom wouldn't dig it, which just cracked them up more. From that day on they called me "Goldilocks," which I'm sure confused our customers quite a bit. And I disliked it even more than "Sly Danny." At least "Sly Danny" made me feel suave.

They made fun of my sunglasses too. They were the dark aviator type. That crack in the Journal about my neighbors thinking I was "emotionally akin to the Unabomber" was baloney. Nobody thought I was capable of something like that. To be honest, they all thought I was a dork. Which I am in some ways I guess, but my less dorky sides were clearly beyond them.

Take the way I earned a bonus after my first stint as Shift Manager, for example.

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