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Show CAR BASEBALL Old man Wilkes is burning his garage. He comes out every night after dinner, rakes a few more boards into the ash pile back by his alley and kindles them into fire. He stands above the smouldering fire, leaning on his charcoaled rake, prodding the boards occasionally, adding maybe a board or two. It's taking him years. In the fall he adds a rakefull of leaves from time to time and the smoke whitens and drifts lower down the alley and across the park. In the winter the ash pile is a black hole in the slush, and he stands as a grim snowman with a rake. In April, he begins to add assorted other junk to fuel the fire, broken chairs, bits of rug, weeds, which he also pulls across the charring embers in the summer. He wears overalls with a grimy flannel shirt. It's always the same shirt, a red and grey plaid, and just the pattern scares me when I see it on the shelf in a store. In the summer, Mr. Wilkes rolls the sleeves |
