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42 J o h n M c C a r t h y Ode to Robert McClure Wearing the boots in school got him the nickname. Forty years of epilepsy did not get him a real hire. With a revolving squeegee, steel handle stoic, he walks to work walks to work walks to work all in the same day. Homeless, sun-sunken eyes, callus hands—friendliest grip of tragedy. He met Bobbie Jean when she worked the Route 66 tourist attraction and he’s been faithful to her gravestone since. Between Oakridge cemetery, he retraces footsteps of Lincoln through race riot ghost dust and farewell addresses to wash the windows of local businesses, turning elbow grease for bags of donuts and roses, giving the red petals to Springfield bar patrons and concrete strangers. Transparency in business is good; if customers can’t look inside, they will not bother to make expectations, so erase the smudge. A few bucks later when you can see, Cowboy vanishes. ...

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