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Tom Casey – Essay


     Tom Casey waddled away from the barbecue, cursing under his breath, heading for the kitchen.  A heavy man in his early thirties he both loved and hated to barbecue.  He loved them for the food, he could taste the sausage patties already.  He hated them for the time they took, and the sun.  He had only been out in it for two minutes, and already rivers of sweat were pouring down him.  From the top of his balding, bleach white head, down past his rounded cheeks and double chins, and soaking his extra, extra, large blue work shirt.

     Stepping into the kitchen, the yellow tile floor caught the light and shined into Tom's eyes.  As he turned his head to avoid the light, he noticed the linoleum counter top, for what seems like the first time.  A flood of memories hit him all at once.  His father used to put him up on counter tops like this one in his kitchen.  He had been abused.  Abused by his father, and it was all coming back to him now.  Coming back in force.  Tom sagged down onto the tile floor, his weight suddenly becoming unbearable, and began to cry.

     Twenty minutes later he got up, and went outside.  The sausage patties were unsavorably burned.  He turned off the grill, went back inside, and sat in the easy chair.  Staring blankly at the TV, he didn't feel like having a barbecue anymore, anyway.

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