Pandemic notwithstanding, the car I’m selling needs to be inspected. Since who the heck wants to talk through masks, I call the mechanic where I’ve left this car for a week or so. What’s a week, anyway?
The soft-spoken mechanic, who’s been undercharging me for years, quietly explains what needs to be done. Then he asks me, What do you think of that? Is that okay?
I’m leaning over the back deck railings, staring into the tangle of wild raspberry canes. I answer, What I think is it’s 2020, and I don’t like any of this.
He busts out laughing. I hate to say it, Brett, but we’re so fucked. This has only been going on since March.
I know. What’s going to happen in November?
I’m laughing so hard at this point; there’s so nothing funny about any of this — pretty much nothing funny about 2020 at all — but we keep laughing and laughing.
Then I say, It’s just a car. Fix it. I’ll sell it. That’s small potatoes.
And — it’s still Vermont July — with a creamy half-moon and endless cucumbers.
The cool breeze.
With all his strength