He steered, his hands tight to the wheel, his eyes screwed into the lit part of the road ahead. The Rambler seemed to continue on with a momentum that was beyond both of them. They passed the silent brick buildings of farm towns, the peeling paint and faded letters of cooperative storage elevators next to the railroad tracks, lone water towers so stark against the night sky. He rolled down the window, stared out at the gloom, over the vast, fertile plain of Middle America. The air was mild now, warmer after the storm, laced with the smell of wet earth and young corn shoots. There was that sense of incredible distance without a visible horizon, a distance that seemed so close in one instant, infinite in the next.
Very famous driver, very famous car, very famous moment, very famous hill. One hint: NE; Second hint: 1958. Prize of 10k already was won by Lee Turner.
In a perfect world . . .
And just for the silliness of it, this is the author with probably the toughest man who ever lived—Bruce Shoebottom. He actually wrote me a poem inspired by my books of poems, which meant the world to me.
4 thoughts on “A paragraph from the road novel A Repair Manual for New England Melancholiacs”
you won’t believe how i got here—i googled ‘eric, the guy who draws tiny, faint bricks’, then saw the picture of your porsche. had to look. eric is/was an artist my girlfriend ran away with in 1975 when we lived in the bronx, opposite yankee stadium. i’d been touring with american ballet theater for months and when i returned home, it was all over.
nice blog. intermechanica, eh.
Since I was pretty sober in 1975, never lived in the Bronx, it wasn’t me. Is the girl stealer Eric still an artist?
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