Kaufman drove from one fire to another. In Baltimore, there had been a train wreck in the Howard Street tunnel, the northern end of which was not far from the small house he owned, tucked away on a side street behind the hulking wreck of a Victorian hotel, and three doors down from a gay…
Marie parks in the circular drive where the front lawn had been grass the summer before. But nothing so beautiful, nothing so inherently good, about grass. The paving job was done by her cousin William’s own company, which he’d started after deciding it was too difficult to make a living as a fisherman. Hippie-ish…
More than peace and cypresses, emboldened hares at the field’s edge, Father, I love gallantry, tenacity, the sanguine heart before the ledge: the artist questing and failing— the feet of bested Icarus plunging into the sea’s crest— the artist triumphing: a page of fire from the book of heroes. More than light-hooved gazelles, views from…
He had jumped a radio tower and a cliff in Norway, but never a bridge. He chose a Wednesday morning when the fog was expected to burn off early and called in sick to work. At dawn, he climbed the tower. The riskiest part, he thought, would be landing in the water, where his friends…
I had torn the quads in both legs and had to be poured into the back seat so when we parked at Home Depot, I was being slid out on a plastic sheet when a red sports car pulled in next to us, the door swung open and a hand cast out a folded wheelchair…
He braked the old green Chevy on the side of a mountain somewhere out West and bet my mother he could start a serious avalanche by kicking a single rock into another no she said no please don’t Dan please don’t start an avalanche please and in the back…
With my black pointed hood and my raggedy black gown, its tatters like the Wicked Witch might sport before she hops on her broom to write the sky in black smoke, Surrender Dorothy!—I could be holding out my hands for a trick or treat, like any American child on a Halloween eve, if not for…
The crusade had been brewed up over empty stomachs and ulcer bomb margaritas made from reconstituted lime juice and ice cubes older than the tequila. Bob’s tequila-idea plan was simple: He—we—would become minor anecdotes by driving to El Paso, Texas, finding Cormac McCarthy at the pool table, challenging him to a game of eight-ball, beating…
You’d think he was nervous the way he fits and starts. His skittery dodges, dipping below the visible, make us wait for a scratch on our eye which comes to show he’s gone again elsewhere. How does he find his way? you said, and I saw night close in like a room with…
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