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Big Boss Man rules Cleave Springs from the white, four-door pickup truck that’s waiting for me when I pull into the parking lot behind the building. I take a spot near his and watch him climb down from the high cab. “Hank Williams,” he says, having heard the music through my open windows. “Your cheating heart will tell on you.”
Lefty was in the raspberries again when I came home from work on Monday. He’d ravaged another big section. Broken stalks littered the ground around him. I went into the yard, unsure what to do. I thought walking toward him would scare him off but I’d gotten to the edge of the garden and he still stood there, munching raspberry stalks, the dewlap beneath his throat jiggling as he chewed.
In the four years I had been waiting on Mr. Jenkins, this was the most he had spoken to me. It was also the first time his discussion had deviated from banking matters. “And the worst part, the burn mark won’t go away. The floor technician worked and worked, but it won’t clean off. It’s really a shame. The floors in that store are always so shiny, although I don’t like the new tile pattern since the remodel.”
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