Flannel and Freedom
An essay by Chad Schomber
The man is standing. That’s the whole story, at first.
He’s wearing a work jacket that looks like it’s done its time in a machine shop or maybe a garage. The collar’s turned up like he just came in from the cold, and his shirt’s the kind of blue flannel that smells like sawdust and engine oil when it’s wet. His hands are clean but rough. The kind of roug…
