Sunday, September 20, 2015

another Sylvan Moore story


While she read exit numbers and destinations signs aloud, 
she remembered what she wanted to ask him. So he told 
his daughter there was a car driving somewhere out there 
on the roads of America that once tried to cut his arm off. 
He used to work in a Detroit car factory the size of a city. 
It had everything a city did, good and bad. There was even 
a black market where he bought her a ring. Inside there, 
through rows of machines and car shapes, and all the car 
making sounds, he had worked in the deepest part of the city 
turning metal into cars. He used to attach doors to the frames 
and the doors came to him hanging in a row from a track 
running the ceiling. It was dangerous work. There was a 
union hospital that was usually filled with wounded and 
his last job had been Vietnam. He showed his daughter 
the scar that ran his arm, where the sharp edge of a door 
caught him with its steel. But he told her it was also 
like Alice in Wonderland down there and she could have 
run miles and miles of tunnels and worlds down there 
before she could find him. 

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