Clay Andrews

I had just gotten home from my rush hour commute through the 115 degree summer heat in Phoenix, Arizona. My car rolled across the the gravel in front of my rundown shack by the railroad tracks. I went in and turned on the ailing air conditioner and flipped on the TV to decompress from a soul-sucking day at a job that I hated.

I had no idea what to do for the rest of the day. I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any plans.