It was that word over, and over, and over again one day, “linoleum,” in either drama club or band or something. I pictured it as a kind of carpet — and the story was, in some play, “the guy was just dragging this thing across the floor, SCRAPING the linoleum!” There was a bunch of laughter, but I was stuck on that word, because I was sure it didn’t mean what it sounded like — I’d pictured it a sort of carpet, but apparently it was some sort of harder thing. The temperature drops, the air gets moister, you GET ramshackles — cross the bridge. 37 necks are craned in intoxicated ire, sifting forward in Toyota Corrollas they are in the processes of purchasing without the August sun.

I take a quick peek out the patio door here and there. My job is to touch books and not look at or talk to or anybody. All of a sudden a dude goes “Hey!” like he’s pinned me, he’s ripped and I haven’t fistfought in forever, haven’t thought about it because I lived in Colorado and had buxom hispanics asking for my phone number as I bounded through my post-bac teacher ed program holding a 4.0 and excelling in both math and language amidst hollow hey-ho’s of people, of circumstances. Linoleum.

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