"In July, even in the dead middle of the night, you can't breathe the air in the Atlas pickle plant. You have to suck it. The smell is sharp and thick and sets the hairs in your nose on end and makes you feel like your lungs are getting as slicked over as your white Keds tennies, their laces green and pungent from dragging through puddles of pickle juice."
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One can't judge till one's forty; before that we're too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant.