Oddward⟩

 THERE ARE SOME DAYS when throttling your maker seems optionable, if only for an unprofitable venture through childhood. Samuel Leiberman’s thoughts continue to be chaotic as he fumbles for his keys in his cargo shorts with groceries in hand. He approaches his house on the parking lot asphalt in the evening twilight. The sack in his arms stages a rebellion against his grip like a child that becomes fifty pounds heavier as it leans away. He is five foot and balding. His yellow Hawaiian shirt contrasts appropriately to the red prefab with white trim, an AstroTurf yard and a white picket fence held in place by sandbags. It sits in the parking lot of an old stripmall in northwest Tulsa, long overdue for demolition. It used to be a mail station, then a box store, then a consignment shop. He got a lot of freebies when he bought it at auction. He’s convinced that he will one day receive a payday when someone inevitably plows into it because of the hard bend in the road right in front of i...