Chris

The apartments where my brother and I grew up had a laundry room, its own building. Kids on big wheels, tricycles, bicycles, circling around it and through it, all day long. No talking, just monotony. One kid’s father was an engineer, like our father, an aeronautical engineer. I pedaled close to him and asked, “Your Dad’s an engineer?” He didn’t even look at me and snapped, “not the kind that drives a train, stupid.”