I remember it well: working hard during those hot Georgia summers. Memory tends to preserve certain things whole, like insects caught in amber, perfect and irretrievable.
My first job was at Cherokee Country Club within one of those tidy, self-important suburbs that ring Atlanta like a string of pearls on a woman who takes herself too seriously. I would rise before the light had even begun its slow negotiations with the dark and make my way to join the waiting: teenage boys shuffling and yawning, and old Black men who had been at this gig long enough to have stopped expecting anything particular from the day.
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