Elm St. Junkyard

Over at Arthur's

  I don't get here often enough. Arthur and Marla are nutrients around my roots; 10 minutes of conversation and I'm home. The world is still crazy, but I've got battle-scarred veterans watching my back. We can laugh at Donald Trump and the UK debacle, and I can get a promise of Arthur-grown garlic.
  We share a dinner of steak, hot dogs and something Jewish. Arthur and I swill down a couple of fingers of Tin Cup whiskey, which mildly pisses off Marla.
  You're stuck with your family, but you choose your friends. Arthur and I shared a career - I wrote, and he took the pictures - was that fun, or what? 

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