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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.16.06, thursday evening

I met the old man who lives across from the cafe. The go-to guy for car repairs. The one whose heart is still strong at 76, all thanks to plenty o' brandy and a cup of boiled hot water in the morning. No tea, no coffee, none of that.

He bought me a drink and he let me know a bit about his side of the village, like how his mother once worked at the bar back in the 30s. I drove my first car in the 40s. This one, he said conspiratorially, as if it was not to be discussed loudly, He was born in England. That one, he's good for football. He's my grandson. Half-Muslim. His father is Turkish.

The old man's eyes blink, once, twice, emphatically, as if he cannot believe that is already the 21st century.




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