“How old are you, Jimmy?” I ask. He’s sitting behind the wheel of his thirty-year-old, faded blue Cutlass Calais, fiddling with hearing aids in both ears.
I’m standing in the street next to my home office, leaning down to talk to Jimmy through his open car window. For years I’ve wondered about this gaunt man who pulls up to the curb for a minute or two — always in the same place — then drives off. I saw him stop about lunch time today and decided to end the mystery.
“Eighty-seven,” Jimmy shouts in a raspy voice, as if I have the hearing problem. Thick glasses magnify his eyes. One looks at me, the other turns outward. Jimmy seems pleased that I’ve introduced myself. Read More
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