(Thanks, Ollie) PETE DEXTER blew into town from Florida some 30 years ago with a cowboy limp and a car that smelled like wet dog.
His hips were messed up from an old football injury, aggravated by years of Dexter insisting he could bang with kids half his age in playground basketball games.
He was always bleeding from his ears, gums, recent scabs.
Dexter's car appeared to be upholstered in mouse-colored shag carpet. It was dog hair, layer upon layer, undisturbed, like age rings in a tree. The dog's name was Harry. He was 14, maybe 15 years old.
The Daily News issued Dexter a new company car. Within days, it smelled of wet dog and appeared to be upholstered in mouse-colored shag carpet.
Dexter uri…
Keep reading with a membership
This story is for Gangrey members. Join to read it in full, unlock the archive, and support narrative nonfiction.
Become a MemberAlready a member? Sign in



Leave a comment