Brooks Egerton

So I’m standing there in the dollar store with my underwear in my hands — well, almost my underwear, can’t quite buy it yet, the checkout line is molasses, the self-serve station is dead — and this old lady in front of me turns around and looks at the package and says, My husband always bought that kind, he loved the camo style. I give a faint nod, which eggs her on.

At eight in the morning, the man with the five o’clock shadow points into the soundproof room. You cast a parting glance at your father, cross the threshold, perch on the edge of the designated seat. Shadow Man elbows the gray metal door shut — thunk — then towers over you and croaks, Relax! An old dog’s halitosis hits your face. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we, kid?