A few years later, I moved to New York City and got a job at a boutique in Nolita. One day, as I threw out the trash in the building's dumpster, I noticed a frame leaning against the wall. I looked closely, and under shattered glass, glued on black velvet, was a CD. It was Moby's Play, with an inscribed metal plate underneath that commemorated the sales of his album.
I removed the glass, grabbed the CD and the plate, and rushed back to work. When I showed my co-worker what I'd found, she said, that's because Moby lives upstairs. The frame probably fell of his wall and he didn’t want to repair it. As it turns out, I now literally own Moby's album Play.