Monday, November 13, 2017


Maybe all storage places are marginal, on the edge of things where the people who are scrabbling out a living collect their lives. 

The two guys still blocking the hallway on my third trip from the van pause their rhythmic, rolling conversation in an African language that they periodically season with French, and one of them gives me a half-hearted squint that I studiously ignore.

"Thanks," I say humbly as he moves his bulging, overladen cart out of the way yet again, and he shrugs and sits back down on the chair in his storage unit.

The next time I pass, they don't stop talking, but he gives me a curt nod, and his cart remains parked around the corner.
Two years ago: Deja Vu
Three years ago: Fooling No One
Six years ago: I Know How You Feel, Kid

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