All happening in an explosion
I have dropped my mini-van at the shop for repairs—stuck ignition and failed door lock actuator. They’ll call with an estimate, but I’ll pay any amount. I know nothing about ignitions and actuators. On the plus side, I’ve loaded my bike in the back of the van, so my repair bill at least buys me a brisk ride on the marsh trail that connects across town to my neighborhood. I’m just a quarter mile out when I stop downtown at the riverfront pier—a barge out of St. Louis is stalled in our main channel. The usual cast gathers—the elderly, depressed, and disoriented, skippers of work, scabs, cads and drifters. “Engine blew,” says an old codger in a plaid Tam. I’m too late for the major drama, but can still see a scrim of black smoke drifting upstream. “Gonna have to tow it.” He sounds aroused by the prospect but I’m preoccupied noticing the world changing. L ate-season and in elapsing, life’s become beautiful—new colors, new depths in the sky as the sun recedes. Make