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importantly, it holds the promise of a midnight sun that lingers for
months.
He arrives in mid-summer, on a day when mosquitos run rampant, and
unhappily he soon discovers that every day in summer is like this.
His existence becomes a long-running war against the insect as he
utilizes whatever he can lay hand on - magazines, sponges, improvised
swatters constructed of coat hangers and carefully sliced squares
of cardboard - to do battle. Soon the walls of his sublet apartment
are a bloody mosaic of dead mosquitos, their fragile little wings
sticking in all directions, the bits of red from their bodies resembling
the juices of a berry. For entertainment he sometimes ventures to
the local bar, but the comedians who make their home there have a
nasty bent against outsiders, and he is easily marked as a foreigner.
The first joke concerns the all-purpose uses of
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duct tape, and he is the only one who does not laugh; the rest is
inevitable.
Twice he ventures into the woods near his town, deep enough that he
has fleeting doubts that he can find the way back, a prospect that
exhilarates him. But all for naught; his sense of direction has been
sharpened from years venturing to all manner of locales. The otherwise
intimidating crash of alleys and cul-de-sacs is only a game to him,
and likewise the sight of a particular low-hanging madrone tree or
the unmistakable sticky scent of honeysuckle is enough to reorient
him. And so each time he emerges from the woods, back onto the dirt
trails scuffed up by bootprints and stubbed-out cigarettes, back to
the tiresome apartment and the mosquitos. He has no great love for
the outdoors, in any case. He craves the simple sight of other humans,
even if there is no time to say
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