Silas Marlow is 57, makes his living restoring vintage typewriters out of a cinder block workshop behind his bungalow in west Asheville. His biggest flaw is that he’s carried a grudge against casual socializing ever since his wife left him for a 28-year-old SaaS sales rep eight years prior, going so far as to lie about being out of town to skip neighborhood barbecues and holiday potlucks. He only agreed to come to the summer block party this year because his next door neighbor had covered his vet bill when his senior beagle ate a whole pack of rubber typewriter erasers, and he owed her a favor.
He’s been planted by the taco truck for 45 minutes, wearing a frayed gray flannel even with the humidity clinging to the back of his neck, grease crusted under three fingernails he didn’t bother scrubbing before he left, sipping a lukewarm Pabst and counting down the minutes until he can leave without being rude. The air smells like grilled carne asada and cherry Kool-Aid, kids shriek as they chase each other with water guns, and the local classic rock cover band is butchering a Tom Petty track so badly he’s half tempted to stuff napkins in his ears.