Trying to drive up a very small street with cars parked on both sides so only one car at a time could get by, individual sees me already entered the roadway, got in the car backs out of his driveway, intending to for me to back all the way out. I was about half in. I wait thinking he will realize it was a not so smart action and he will pull back in to let me pass since forward is an easier safer plan. He doesn't do that we sit for anout 30 seconds and he is determined to stay. I was a fairly new driver in my first car. I get irritated and shut my motor off basically saying, buddy I entered the street first you were parked never looked before you hurriedly pulled forward. So he shuts off his motor and smiled good as to say stalemate. I'm thinking I have no place I have to be, I'll wait rather than trying to back up half the block without hitting somebodies car. We wait, he gets out of his car goes into his house, no cell phone back then it was the pager (beepers) era. I wasnt sure why he was going in, but probably nit good outcome for me. So I happened to have a small bottle of Keri Lotion (thick, oily lotion for extremely dry skin) in the cup holder. I jump out of my car run to his squirted the whole bottle all over his windshield ran back to my car and DID manage to back up rapidly without damaging my car or anyone! He ran out of the house and I saw by his facial expression was livid! I was thinking as I drove away I hope he doesn't try to use the wipers, that's going to make a really smear mess. He's not going anyplace for a while. Years later I regretted having done that, letting a stranger provoke me, and second felt guilty about the sheer gleeful triumph of seeing his face. I won! How long did the man probably stay inside? A. One minute B. Ten minutes C. Twenty minutes D. not enough information
A

November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." what action was occuring when the topic of the dead fiddler was brought up? A. cooking B. smoking C. not enough information D. crying
B

The sudden burst of spring produce in the market after a long, monotonous winter of cavolo nero and bright oranges is one of the things that constantly reminds me why I love living and eating in Italy. A wander through the market like any other becomes, in spring time, a new experience. I feel like a fresh arrival, like it's my first time walking through my local market. There are long, twisty fava bean pods, waiting to be podded and munched on with bitey pecorino cheese to tame the bitterness of the raw beans. Thin, long-stemmed asparagus. A lovely array of greens, including radishes with leaves so happy that they become the main ingredient, fluffy-fronded fresh herbs and fresh garlic. Artichokes of many different kinds, but especially the pointed purple ones that are either local, from Tuscany's Maremma, or sometimes from Puglia or Sicily. Rarely the rounded globe artichokes you find spilling out of crates in Rome, or the tiny, delicate Venetian ones, the so-called castraure (though they often aren't the real deal, how you can tell is by the price) that you can find in the shadow of the Rialto. And then there are thick bunches of agretti (salsola soda), looking more like mermaid's hair than a monk's beard, their English namesake. A few years ago, this wasn't such a common sight at the market in Florence. It still isn't, in that you won't get them by the crateful like you do fava beans and artichokes, though they're not particularly difficult to find now. They're just one of those special things that don't last long. Blink and you'll miss them, or come late to the market and they could easily be sold out. It's worth getting up and out of the house a little earlier for these (a note to myself, of course). If you've never tasted agretti before, it's worth seeking out if you're in the right place at the right time and find a bunch or see it on a menu. Frances Mayes likens it to spinach, but notes that it is so much more, "While agretti has the mineral sharpness of spinach, it tastes livelier, full of the energy... Why would the narrator get up a little earlier? A. To get Monk's beard before it is sold out B. not enough information C. To get rounded globe artichokes D. To get fresh garlic
A