I once lived above a garage. Like the Fonz. A vine-covered “telephone & telegraph” box under the shaky entrance stairs. Rent was cheap. The location was good. I could cross the street to use the Dixie County Courthouse restroom as my toilet was broken. The garage beneath me was divided into 2 spaces. An adjacent rental property used one of these spaces. The one under my bedroom. Hitting car parts with a wrench doesn’t fix them. But a neighbor stood beneath my bed and tried most mornings. An uninspired “Metal Machine Music” tribute act. I’d stumble downstairs in boxers. Out into the cool morning air. Tell the guy to hush it up. He’d look startled. Drop his wrench and head inside for coffee. I never planned to see the sunrise. I did most mornings back then. All red and purple over small town Florida.

Contributor Bio:

Damon Thomas is a sixth-generation Floridian who grew up on the banks of the Suwannee in rural Dixie County, FL. Here he experienced a “Southernness” that included sea monsters, swamp cabbage, and makeshift graves. Damon has released 28 Spoken Word albums and 9 books on how the bookish might pass time in a Southern Gothic setting.