mdapel

Copy, Story, ETC.

July 14, 1951

It didn’t surprise me when, after church last Sunday, I arrived at the old house to shop through the dead man's things, and I found the boxes of old magazines, with others in the foyer and me in garage, surrounded by suitcases and dusty drop-forged wrenches, all 9/16s, and I began to furiously hunt through editions set in the times of the Great  American Writers, and full of fancy cigarette advertisement's, and who knew Abercrombie was forcing everyone into satin blouses even in the 50s, and as I turned the page I found it, the exact thing I had been hunting for, while others looked at the cover art, or the chase lounge, or even the crystal ash trays, seven total, one for each room, and in that moment staring at small black serif sandwiched between cartoons and opinion columns, I felt important, connected, well written, like I was finally a friend of the recently passed reclusive author.

It didn't surprise me when the feeling passed, and next thing I knew it was back to the rye fields, the grind of catching and releasing, yet still, how heavenly I feel now recalling the feeling of somehow catching this famous New English phony hiding inside cardboard in a newly passed southern man's estate.