I was there when the hairdryer was invented, Gaure said, firmly, proudly, like a bouncer from the now uber-trendy IHOP had stepped on his non-sensate neck and he had been forced to gurgle his own humanity. That’s ridiculous, Slano said because this was no IHOP, uber-trendy or not, but the garage in his father’s old house several years after his death and only now was he getting around to the garage sale. Gaure put down the hairdryer, wiping the back of a greasy hand across his bald head and picked up a screwdriver. Philips heads are a communist plot, he said, his words equally placed, like a typewriter—such as the one on the ground that Slano’s father had carved his initials into—or a demented soul with one arm, which he was. You gonna buy something or not. It was Slano speaking, sitting on a blue-and-white plastic ribbon lawn chair under the thin clouded sky—the only one of the set unbroken when he pulled them down from the nail in the rafters. I haven’t got all day. But he did, pulling his worn windbreaker closed. He did.