
The Thing in the Garage
“I think it’s still under there, Fred.”
“Okay, then, you look under your end of the car and I’ll look under my end of the car, and we should see it if it’s still there, okay?”
“I think it’s still under there, Fred.”
“Okay, then, you look under your end of the car and I’ll look under my end of the car, and we should see it if it’s still there, okay?”
It was a decadent aloneness which she had learned to value, a retreat from the cacophonous work world of the Roosevelt Middle School cafeteria.
With one ear pressed to the cold surface, the classroom sounds were partly filtered, cocooned in a Formica world.
Esmond is able to hear each of these factors of course. He has made his endowments an art form, much as Bach did. But he attempts to shun the reflection . . .
The author would like to dedicate this work to his wife without whom it would not have been etcetera. . . .
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