The drive to and from work was a black and white movie, barely scenic and relying mostly upon dialogue of which he normally had none. In the cool mornings, the ones with an atmosphere you swear you could touch, the drive was soothing, the late afternoon drive however, was arduous and numbing. Arduous for the mere fact of a 10 mile stretch of highway as straight as the back ridge of a butter knife and numbing from the charge of the wind, it covered his car, swirled around it, and blew through the weather-stripping on the drivers’ side door so that a consistent whistle elbowed it’s way into his ear throughout the ride home. The city was Crookston and driving to it required that he cross into the eastern prairie, the flat eastern prairie, dead flat like polished granite. Someone said “ …around here you can watch your dog run away for two days”, and now figured that he’d been watching the renaissance of his life run away for nearly 4 months.
The steam from the sugar beet plant can be seen from about 10 miles away as soon one would turn onto hwy 102. Fortunately the stink from the same plant wasn’t palpable until you found yourself in town.
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1 comment:
Good one, Brett. I particularly like "a 10 mile stretch of highway as straight as the back ridge of a butter knife".
It's not secret that you're smart with car stuff, but you're extremely clever writing about it, too. The whole bit about the weather stripping conjured up sounds and feelings in my mind that most writing can't touch.
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