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Letters to Bizzy:

Updated: Sep 1

"Moving amongst shadows of night I couldn’t help but become a spectator to all kinds of transactions. There were the usual things, like raccoons getting into folks trash, Mr. Cavendish our local drunk crawling home at odd hours, and if I timed my route right I’d spy old man Talbot rushing to the outdoor privy three or four times a night on account of a weak bladder. But most titillating of all events was held in the back room of Jack’s Bait and Hardware, not much bigger than a closet, lit by one incandescent bulb hanging from a wire. It was the meeting place for the Optimists Club which was code for local boys getting together to play poker. Every Wednesday and Sunday night I was sure to find an assembly of our finest Optimists, and now the war was on a few off-duty servicemen as well. All were welcome. Slouched behind their cards, self-described sharks peered at the men across the table trying to discern their tells, and anteing-up a nickel or two if they felt bold."

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