A uniformed man, looks like maybe a mechanic, is standing in the shade of the tree by the driveway. Taking a break... Or waiting for a drug deal? He's looking up the street. He's looking back over at the garage, which, perhaps, is his place of employment. Street. Garage. Looking the other way on the street. Arms crossed. What is going to happen? Probably, as usual, nothing.
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Showing posts from June 26, 2003
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There is, in the parking lot, a truck with one of those screens up inside the windshield, to keep the car interior from getting hot, or the plastic from melting, or some such thing. It's one of the silvery crinkled tin-foil types, which always remind me of the moon lander. Don't see many of those around here; maybe the truck cab has very precious cargo that must be protected from prolonged exposure to heat. Maybe the driver has a skin condition that precludes contact with hot plastic/leather/whatever's in the truck cab. Maybe the screen is a memento of the driver's work on the Apollo space program.