A platform of old, rotten wooden cylinders was built on the back of Rock's house. The cylinders were about the size of large cans of chunky soup and seemingly served no purpose.
The back walls of the house faced an alley that served as a route for service and utility vehicles, most commonly garbage trucks in Rock's experience. In this case, he looked out of his kitchen window to see a Levy city pickup crunch along the alley's gravel surface. Among the bearded men on board, Rock saw one he had known fifteen or twenty years earlier from the gate crew at Oaklawn Park, a racetrack in Hot Springs, Arkansas. He couldn't remember his name but recalled he had admired him and figured he would know exactly what to do with the crumbling cylinders.
This man from his past stepped from the truck and walked to the platform with a sledgehammer. With four or five swings, he knocked away the cylinders and, to Rock's horror, nearly twenty square feet of his back wall.
Infuriated, Rock ran into his backyard and tried to scream at the men on the truck, but he had lost his voice and could manage no more than a raspy whisper. Apparently, he was heard. As the truck rolled away, the man he remembered yelled back, "You're not going to sue anyone, motherfucker."
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