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To my best friend, Pamela ... Clanging to an old & oily frigid-air service door tilted & leaning halfway over a dusty wall in the basement hoping to insert the last full freon recharge can. Light shines dimly on the struggle from a structural portal while patches of sweat dribble from forehead to chin and run down the arm to the hand until the grasp is dampened and the grip meets slippage as the can pops away. Fatigued and impatient toeholds catch for an instant as the airborne word freon flies by and balance is lost and shirt fabric tears when the chest slips off the wall and wide eyes see the plopping can fall into an open hole in the wall. Both feet bound to a skipping hop backwards and a scraped chest stings as the sound of the can hits the bottom of the hole. Retreating up plank stairs where once again a water bottle is filled and sprayed into the fan in the hall. Robert A. Flaspoehler Copyright ©2002 Robert A Flaspoehler 
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