Sunday, July 10, 2016

Standpipe: Delivering Water In Flint

A grand old brick colonial with swinging gutters and curling shingles.  The side door is wide open behind locked steel crime gate.  I bang on the heavy frame, announce myself.  A chair scrapes, the floor groans.  A cooking smell sifts through the steel bars.  An obese man appears on the top step.  I can’t see his face clearly in the dark alcove off the kitchen.  He is eating something soft the color of spray foam insulation, excess clinging to his cheek and lip.  He wears baggy shorts, flip flops and a large silver sidearm holstered on his hip, nothing else.  He gestures to leave the water on the driveway near the door.  I contemplate, briefly, asking is that thing loaded and immediately feel foolish.

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