Next to the parking lot of the pharmacy, in which sits several new and slightly used cars, among them a Toyota, a pair of BMWs, and a Range Rover, sits a worn, dirtied, and most importantly, stolen milk crate. The side of the blue milk crate reads: Berkeley Farms, Mooooo! The milk crate is over turned and covered with a thin and extremely tattered yellow and blue flannel material - possibly the remnant of a picnic blanket or once-warm shirt. In one corner of the flannel is a large non-nondescript dark stain that once smelled distinctly of shit, but now only vaguely smells like decomposing leaves. Perched limply upon the milk crate is what could have once been called a human. Its cheeks are sunken in, porous eyes balance in ditches that were once eye-sockets. And, the man behind this ragged face wouldn’t recognize himself at all if he was handed a mirror, or a nickel, or the reflective gaze of acknowledgement. But, he hasn’t seen these things, feels as invisible as he is. But, not to the cashier, who despite this man’s odor, caked and cracked fingernails, and sweaty nickels, smiles and greets him like any other. His money is good here and the children in line don’t even whisper, don’t even hide behind their mothers’ skirts.