Quonset huts

“Hey man, what are we doing out here?” “You can’t go home again…” “What?” “I said ‘You can’t go home again.’” “I thought you hated that guy.” “Who?” “Thomas Wolfe. The guy you’re named after. Remember?” “I do hate him. His prose is overly descriptive and stilted. And it doesn’t help that I was forced to read all of his books in my teenage years.” “Then why’d you just quote him?” “Say what now?” “You just quoted Thomas Wolfe. You just said ‘You can’t go home again.’ Thats a Thomas Wolfe book.” “I… shit.” “You’ve been acting really weird tonight, TW. So why are we out here, at the quonset huts?” “Whats a quonset hut?” “They’re.. these thingers” Eliot points at the prefabricated steel buildings just on the other side of the fence. “They built a lot of them during World War II. They were cheap and easy to put up. Now they’re good for cheap and easy storage spaces.” “Oh. Right. I like them. And I like what happens here at night.” “There’s something that happens here at night?” “Just watch.” As Eliot and TW watch, a man walks up to the hut. His blue jumpsuit is stained, perhaps with oil. He unlocks the door and walks in. A few minutes later, he returns, locks the door, and leaves. “What did he do in there?” “I have no idea. But he does it ever night. Every night between 11:31 and 11:37pm.” “How many times have you watched him, TW?” “For the last two weeks.” “Why?” “I like to imagine what he’s doing in there, what brings him here every night.” “What do you think he does in there?” “Oh, I don’t try to think of what he’s actually doing. I make wild imaginings of things he could in no way be possibly doing.” “Come on, TW. Lets go back to the apartment.”