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“Everybody’s seen Tom Waits,” Chris said. “Everybody. His son’s a real asshole. I can’t remember his name, so let’s call him Fred. My friend saw Fred walking with his Dad, in Orinda or somewhere, and was like, fuck you Fred! And fuck yo
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"Pull around," Rachel says. "Pull around him, dammit."
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“How long you been waiting around?” he asks as he pockets my soggy ten-dollar bill.
“For a jump or break in life?” I ask.
He smirks. “I hear that.”
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It is within my nature, and many others I know, to cling to what’s consistent and certain: the battles fought in the war for survival and the organic camaraderie borne in the trenches. Sometimes the quest and the people we commiserate with along the way
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Sunday, Nolan and I drop by the ice rink on 10th and Alma to watch the amateur hockey leagues battle it out in an unspoken yet assumed class war: the buff, unemployed rink bums who can grind ice, cross-check, and stick handle like the pros, versus the dou
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