The Wild One
I was in a telephone conversation with a girl a few years ago. She worked for a storage company, one of those places that rents closets and garages for people who know the value of stuff—that it shouldn’t be released—but place no personal value on it, except the cost of giving it to someone else to hang on to until either they become a junkyard sculptor or they die, at which point that stuff falls to someone else, a ramshackle legacy. I had a more everyday use for the space. I needed a locker, a place to store everything I owned, which wasn’t much, but too much to fit on a motorcycle. I wanted something like the proverbial bus station locker, but a little more secure, less likely to be cleaned out every two days. I needed a place I could visit nearly everyday and pick out my clothing for the next day, drop off my laundry, keep food dry and available. I asked the girl if I could do this. It was an odd request, but worth a try. She told me that her company didn’t operate like that. The s
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