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The Room in the Field

  His truck hit a pothole in the craggy city street, and because the shocks were shot to shit, the styrofoam cup of coffee he had just picked up at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru splashed up out of its flimsy plastic lid and hit his lap with a scalding and immediate pain. He let out a string of curse words that likely had his mother rolling over in her grave. Even as he stopped his beat old Dodge Dakota and frantically patted at his jeans with a fitful of crumbled Dunkies napkins, he could hear his mother’s voice in his mind. “Jack Jonathon Smith, didn’t I teach you better than to talk like that?” she would have said, trying her best to repress a hard Boston accent that always leaked out when she was pissed with him. She had tried her best to teach Jack to be polite, to never curse, and to speak in a manner that showed he was educated and civilized. Jack’s  father, on the other hand, had taught him by example how to curse quite proficiently. “Sorry Ma” Jack muttered, even though she had

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