Fiction | December 01, 2004
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It’s better to share a rash with someone else than to endure one on your own. My brother Bernie and I had a mutual rash on two occasions. The first time was from the shoe polish we used to black up our faces in the middle of the night to go to vandalize Mrs. Turner’s lawn jockeys. The second time was from the quiche we mashed in each other’s faces on the night our father left. In between those two outbreaks, I suffered the rash over fifty times by myself.
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