On Friday night, Ian and I went to see Shutter Island at the late showing. We drove home at one in the morning, in the bitter cold, down Dover Point Road, past farms and used car dealerships and seafood restaurants with lobsters on their signs.
We passed a car wash, and I looked over, and saw an old man washing his car at one in the morning, in the 25 degree New Hampshire air, with snow on the ground.
If I were a writer, I could tell you his story. I would, no doubt, be influenced by the psychological thriller I had just seen, and the story would involve murder, intrigue, betrayal, violence, and perhaps adventure. Why else would he be washing his car at one in the morning?
I'm no writer, though, so instead I'll let the old man alone, and let him spray his car down in peace.