backforthmenu Yardsale. A woman and child cross the lawn toward me. I have all our old and unwanted items laid out before them. “How you doing?” she asks. “Good, how about you?” I retort. “Fine, fine. I’m Sandy, Fred the Exterminator’s girl.” She points across the street. “Oh yeah...” I have no idea who she or Fred are. “Hello.” She wanders and looks, a pudgy toddler behind her. He picks up a coffee can filled with sharp objects. “PUT THAT DOWN!” She yells, barely looking back at him as she picks up a book, The Cocaine Wars. The boy puts the can down. “Anything about crack in here?” “Ahhh, I don’t believe so.” She looks at me, one eye practically closed in the sun, “Are you recovering?” Her question catches me offguard. “No.” Does she think that means I am using? The exterminator’s girlfriend pulls some notes from the book. I’d checked it out of the library for an article I’d written some time ago, then moved and never returned it. The papers had to be at least ten years old. “Can I have these?” she asks, holding the notes up. The boy picks the coffee can up again... “I said—PUT THAT DOWN!” I wanted to look at the notes, but my mouth spoke first, “Sure.” They left without buying anything. 7/11/98