Chapter Six
Gristle
“Never judge a sandwich by its crust.”—Jack
Several days later, John, clutching a recycling bag under the veranda, watched the cleaner exit under a volley of swear words.
The garden was full of uneaten sandwiches hurled by Jack, hell-bent on, as he put it, “leaving a trail for the gods of the galaxy.”
The head cleaner took one look at the now “trash heap of a garden” and, with a brisk shove of her broom, ordered the men to “clean it up.”
John had tried to warn Jack.
“The gods of the galaxy don’t do bread,” he said, not that Jack listened.
With a long sigh, John stared at the afternoon sky; any minute, the sun would burst from the clouds, sending anyone under it into a pool of sweat.
Jack hummed.
“Must you always lob things?” said John.
“It’s what a window is
