Banjo Grease

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Creative Arts Book Company, Nov 1, 1999 - Fiction - 182 pages
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Darkness fell. No cars were passing us. Several had stopped dead the in highway, carcasses mantled in snow. I crept around them, uncertain how far ahead the exit road was. I had no idea, but had to make him believe. The bitter chill inside the car mocked the heater's lilting chatter and Pap reeked of vulnerability. It was a father-sweat only a son can detect. Son-sweat he had smelled numerous times. Calling me into my boyhood room at night. Or when he snatched me out of a Lake Erie undertow, and pumped air into my chest .... But now I smelled his. Big time....the sweat inside...was stronger than woman odor, the odor of sex to which we were both addicted.... We were high on it and scared to death."

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Must is the founder and editor of Flying Horse.

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