i made it through the quarantine. i survived a couple of medical scares and a global pandemic. i went and cleaned my whole act up. i’ve been on the wagon for six years. for about half that time, my bizarre, little, one-man bazaar has earned a reputation in the local business community as a marginally reputable purveyor of quality goods and services. 

i broke down and opened a bank account and got some credit cards. i filed a couple of back tax returns and paid off some delinquent parking tickets. now having settled up with the tax man and a menagerie of municipalities stretching across this great land, i find myself at the crossroads (and I’m gonna miss everybody/ and I’m gonna miss everybody.).

i sit and wait for another market crash and prepare for the next iteration of my one-man cartel — i’m opening up my private reserves for the first time in nearly four decades: treasures i acquired on my travels; the most sought-after miscellany; the rarest ephemera. all on display and available for purchase, unabated, at all hours of the day and night. look for the flickering neon sign.

yeah, things sure are looking up for old ross dickerson. so it is with great pride, excitement, and equally great optimism that I give you the conclusion of my bildungsroman:

darkroom: a modern general store for specialists and throwbacks.