I’m waiting impatiently in the only open line at the 99¢ Only Store, despite there being 8 checkout stalls. As I stand there holding an armload of cheap crap, I swear that further up the line of several hundred (so it seems) disgruntled customers is a young Jack Kerouac. He’s eating a Hershey bar that he hasn’t paid for yet, ducking his head sheepishly like he doesn’t want to be recognized, and hitting on a young girl with cat’s eyes (not a metaphor, real cat eyes) and a crown of flames that burn above her beautiful red hair. Kerouac is whispering what sounds like dirty haiku into her tiny ear, careful to avoid the blazing flames and watching the fresh Death Flag tattoo on her arm that continues to ripple in a nonexistent wind. Which is strange because Kerouac died some 40 years ago. Then it gets weird.