by James Adams Smith

Today I bought a can of WD-40, the smaller size, but now they come in these two-for-one packs, bound together with plastic. I fit the red straw down into the crevice, let the nozzle go, flood the space behind the light-switch of my son's 1994 Oldsmobile. They said it was the coffee he spilled, the sticky residue from sugar substitute. One press of the switch, turn of the key, and the headlights are on now, on and useless. People who drive with their lights on in the daytime use to really bug me. But I'm doing it now, lights on, driving, realizing there's nothing this second can could ever fix.


James Adams Smith has lived in a Texas trailer park, a Baptist church, a Hurricane Katrina shelter, and a brandy farm in Romania. He is currently writing a memoir.