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59 A Salesman and a Librarian The rest are chastised and reborn as salesmen and librarians. From “Doing This,” by Tony Hoagland Mom smelled of books, even Dad admitted between “prospects,“ as he called everyone. In the checkout line at Vons, he’d show strangers his coat, watch, pants, and say, “Make me an offer.“ “Shh,“ Mom would tell him. “Honey, sshh.“ When friends came over to play baseball, Dad hawked peanuts. Mom made the umpire whisper. All my parties were the slumber kind. At least nobody stayed awake to watch Mom catalog my clothes and toys, my cute sayings and minuscule misdeeds. I loved my parents, but prayed God would make them fun like Joey’s mom, whom people called “Madam,“ and Lynn’s dad before the cops dragged him away. Walking home from school, some days I’d miss our house, it made such scant impression. Or maybe I just couldn’t bear to see Dad’s car always marked “For Sale,“ the lemonade stand where he sat all night, the garage stuffed with alphabetized newspapers and Kirkus Reviews among unsold stain removers, World Books, insurance policies. The vacuum cleaners especially haunted me—too sad even to dust off their bristly mustaches; too tired to raise, on brontosaurus necks, their plastic hammer-heads. ...

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