Fiction | March 01, 1994

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When Henry Teeter first arrived in Santa Monica the only thing he wanted to do was sit on the seawall at the very end of Wilshire Boulevard and watch the sunset. At several times during his pilgrimage he thought he might never get to the West Coast, and so, once there, was content merely to sit quietry for a time. After seven days of heading due west from North Carolina he had truned south at Needles on the advice of a filling station attendant who thought that Henry’s old Chevrolet might have an easier go of it approaching the Pacific coast from the southeast.

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