Monday, April 30, 2007

Bloor Line, surfing.

Caucasian male, mid 40s, in casual dress pants and indigo blue shirt, standing at the back of the last car, legs braced, shoulders hunched, rocking.

The Plot Against America, Philip Roth (Vintage)

Page 113:

It was the first time I saw my father cry. A childhood milestone, when another's tears are more unbearable than one's own.
As a boy, he sat on the edge of the dock, side-by-side with Dad, legs dangling, eating peanut butter cookies and watching the minnows scatter. His father pinched the back of his neck, bumping his forehead with his own and laughed at nothing but warmth and sunshine. The relatives approached, guiding their boat through the choppy waves. His father leaned forward, reaching out to grab an extended arm and slipped into the water. He bobbed up under the dock, a stray nail puncturing his cheek. The boy rolled over the edge, puking at the sight of his father's blood mixed with tears.

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