On The Beautiful Futility Of Writing

By July Westhale

When I was in high school, I worked full-time at a bait and tackle shop in my rundown, Sacramento Valley orchard town of Winters. It was my first steady job, and I was saving up to buy my friend’s piece-of-shit Volkswagen, which was currently hoisted up on cinder blocks and missing an engine, as far as I could tell. But it was red, and I knew enough about ’72 Bugs to know that they…