I was stealing salt shakers again. Ten, sometimes twelve a night, shoving them in my pockets, hiding them up my sleeves, smuggling them out of bars and diners and anywhere else I could find them. In the morning, wherever I woke up, I was always covered in salt. I was cured meat. I had become beef jerky. Even as a small, small child, I knew it would one day come to this.
That's the first paragraph right there. It's about one man's desperate fight to assign absolutely no meaning to modern life. It's also about sleeping in the bathroom at work, getting framed for a deaf lady's murder, and how it feels to get beat up by a girl.