Envoy: Winning

Mamma Jean’s home is an apartment in the city. The apartment is in a high rise of rental condominiums overlooking the beach, two blocks from a retirement community. She bought it when her husband died, years ago, as a big fuck you to widowhood and college students on spring break. The furniture is sparse; a stationary bike fills the space where a couch would sit. The TV loops continuously with 1950s Olympic cycling.

It’s the place I go when I need to go some place else.

I spent summers there once I was old enough to clean up after myself. Between her morning cycling and her evening cycling, she’d load me into her PT Cruiser and play taxi. “Play” is the term I used. The term she used was “moonlight.” She’d park on the corner of the bus stop near the local college and wait for disappointed summer-school girls, away from home and unaccustomed to public transportation, left behind by the 36 to Ocean Terminal.

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Envoy: Morocco

By Molly Dektar ’12