“Spent most of the weekend laid up on the couch,” Frank tells me. “Yesterday I was hoping to hit a couple yard sales,” he says, “but the second I walk out the door it’s like I been punched in the face. That’s how bad the smell is. I walk out the door and bam–” Frank claps his hands together and I jump a little “–right in the goddamn schnoz. You understand what I’m saying?” he says, like he’s pretty sure I don’t.
From Portland Review Volume 61.2. Available for purchase here.