What can YOU say in six sentences?
The clock strikes 12:13am, straight, roundless numbers clicked into shape by glowing sticks of electric green. An unseen finger presses the garage door opener as the tires crawl across the rocky gravel driveway, white door folding up ahead, the action lit by pale white headlights. The space inside, expecting to contain just room enough for a white minivan to park, is blocked by three moldy cardboard boxes, stacked like his son's building blocks, smelling of pumpkin, bursting with contents, behind it a metal bed frame propped up like a pair of skis, a yellow mattress, leaning upright behind them, the image halting the car, its nose resting just beyond the opening of its once designated place. It halts indefinitely in the driveway as my red Toyota slows to lengthen its trip through the alleyway perpendicular to the house, curiously hoping to see Act 2 before the car is forced to turn onto the next street. Has the minivan's driver been betrayed, caught off guard, absent-minded, temporarily forgetting about the self-made, gourd-smelling barrier or knowing full well of its intent to park outside the night, opened the door only for himself to pass through to the house? The gossip in my Toyota's driver tells it to think the worst for the minivan driver.