Here's the first bit, a start that somewhat susses through my initial thoughts on...a story, I guess. I don't know.
It will just get longer every night, sans weekends back in St. Louis, sans times I just can't really see my way to write, sans times I need to take to figure out Madison, Wisconsin.
I suppose this is autobiographical, mostly, but I won't hesitate to take entirely depraved fictional rambling routes when such opportunity affords itself. *smile*
I had my own problems when I first saw the garage pile. I'd just left the old job, was about to start the new, wasn't in my own house, and was desperate for any sort of storage I could find. Veronica's stuff was in my way.
I had never met Veronica. But the same hospitality my brother, Duane, and sister-in-law, Wendy, were showing me had morally impelled them to devote precious space from their one-car garage to hapless Veronica. Something about a dead husband and a very terrible gaggle of in-laws, forcing poor Veronica to stash the jetsam of her life into distributed destinations, haphazard monuments to her hardship. Duane's garage held one such depressing effigy.
And that pathetic shrine could have become my lack of space.
It was good to have focus, though. As I waved good-bye to Duane and Wendy, I realized settling into their city house would give me all the distraction I needed. Unpacking, mowing the lawn, keeping tidyﾅ Besides, a sizable basement area was already being made available to me. What more could a hobo ask for? I still had boxes from my inaugural carload to pop open. Envy of an area I didn't even need yet was petty at best.
Sadly, I am a decidedly petty man.