The Concrete Classroom
The rain in the Bronx doesn't wash anything away; it just turns the grime into a darker shade of grey. I remember Mr. Gable as a man who smelled of cheap bourbon and old newsprint, a walking disaster in a stained corduroy jacket. He ran a 'school' out of a basement in a tenement building that looked like it was leaning against its neighbor just to keep from falling over. We were the...
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