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31 FSA I share a room with an ice climber and somebody from NASA. Their socks want to be with mine and I say no, no, and kick them savagely. A woman from Minneapolis sentences her shit-brindle sweater to solitary confinement inside the dorm dryer, sets it on a cold cycle for three days. So much for the rest of us. I have brought ten flutters of Bounce in a quart Ziplock but when NASA pajamas asks, I say I am out. Until the down-the-hall girls finish, no point anyway. I hide the Ziplock between the pages of a book. I am sure they had Wal-Mart and Target in his town and he always forgets to lock the door. Ben Shahn the FSA photographer swore it is true because he was there: farmer was being rejected for a Dust Bowl loan. Something out of Grapes of Wrath, and things are grim but not decided yet either way. Farmer pleads. Banker says, Here’s a sporting offer, old timer. If you can guess which one of my eyes is a glass one, you can have your loan. The farmer doesn’t hesitate. “The left one.” And of course he’s right—the banker says, Holy Joe, how did you know? Farmer, It’s the one that looked the kindest. ...

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