Sublime

maybe when Andy washed up spitting and coughing into the country on the far side of the water, maybe my mother was the very one who knelt down by

Each time they returned to Nickel, he wrote down the particulars in a composition book. The date. The name of the individual and the establishment. Some names took a while to fill in, but Elwood had always been the patient type, and thorough.

He was as tall as Billy, wore steel-rimmed trifocals.

“A comic book novel,” Sammy said. He thought of his own by-now legendary novel, American Disillusionment, that cyclone which, for years, had woven its erratic path across the flatlands of his imaginary life, always on the verge of grandeur or disintegration, picking up characters and plotlines like houses and livestock, tossing them aside and movin

on some monstrous dose of PCP.

He made an impression at Klan meetings,