Weeping Underwater Looks A Lot Like Laughter - Plot & Excerpts
After wasting over a quarter tank of gas I ended up cereal shopping at Hy-Vee, where I ran into former student council member Kip Nevins. Based on our conversation, apparently he thought he’d been voted into a lifetime position related to psychological guidance. “You should really be with people,” he kept saying, after inviting me to join a group of classmates heading to a free concert of a band whose name he couldn’t remember. On the drive home I noticed Mr. Schell’s Beemer parked next to a cluster of lesser vehicles in a run-down strip mall off Hickman Road. I slammed on the brakes and made a two-hundred-seventy-degree turn, not knowing why I was doing it, but parking at the far end of the lot, which by night held an air of kinky secrecy that I blamed on the red band of neon along its wooden awning, and the dubiously unmarked offices smattered among Irish sweater, classic bicycle, and other such specialty shops on the first level. The Down Under Bar was located on the second level, up a flight of splintered stairs, and was the only establishment in the strip mall still open.
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