I still remember the off-hand comment made by an old boyfriend after I’d just come home from the salon. Of course, no man leaves an impression like the first to break a girl’s heart, and so I carry more of Dillon’s wants and ways than any other. What I remember most about him — and this was from high school, which now feels like a different world — is the way he worked on cars. In one of those rare moments of simple adolescent pleasure, I once sat and watched him work under the hood of his old Saab, and when he stepped close, I could smell the mix of motor oil and sweat that has defined manhood for me ever since. At that time, Dillon and I were just friends, and my real boyfriend — a fastidious kid named Jimmy who wore glasses and had an unhealthy attachment to his mother — liked to poke fun at my working-class friend. Crawford talks about his experience of moving from a knowledge worker at a think tank to owning his own motorcycle repair shop. read more
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