The New Yorker pointed to John Cheever’s excellent short story ‘The swimmer’ (1964) this Sunday. I remember hearing it read on Selected shorts years ago, read it. This passage stood out:
'Had you gone for a Sunday-afternoon ride that day, you might have seen him, close to naked, standing on the shoulder of Route 424, waiting for a chance to cross. You might have wondered if he was the victim of foul play, or had his car broken down, or was he merely a fool? Standing barefoot in the deposits of the highway beer cans, rags, and blowout patches, exposed to all kinds of ridicule, he seemed pitiful.'
No idea how you’d go about patching a blowout. Maybe it was a “thing” back when they had inner tubes in the tires. Maybe they’re referring to those 18 wheeler retreads that peel off on the highway. Maybe the writer didn’t really know what roadside debris consisted of. I don’t see many rags on the side of the highway either. He definitely got the part about beer cans right, though.
I actually did both, many years ago, in a time that’s best forgotten! Or at least blocked out. Lesson learned, though. Sheesh, that’s been so long ago it seems like a dream now. A bad one!
Up north here they use the automatic car wash. Maybe get a discount I dunno.
My first thought was that they were talking about pot hole patches. I suppose it used to be common to patch a tube on the road but otherwise I am at a loss.
… and they’re also very unattractive when they are hurtling through the air. Many years ago on the NJ Turnpike, I narrowly missed having my windshield smashed by a flying “gator”. Luckily it only hit the hood and left a dent that was repairable.
Maybe can’t afford the gas but wear shoes or at least flip flops. There are thousands of little hook worms in the soil just waiting to burrow in between you toes from going bare foot.
I thought about that, but I wouldn’t call them patches. I saw one today on a city street.
That occurred to me too. It wasn’t his jam.
He was swimming across the county. You can read the story at that URI. I think it’s a great story, but Cheever is a The New Yorker kind of writer: not everyone’s read.