by David Lubar
Freddy and I were busting our butts cleaning out his parents' tool shed. Freddy's
father had offered us each a couple of bucks to do the work, which was fine with
me. Of course, it turned out to be a lot more work than either of us counted on.
"Man, it's amazing how much junk you can put in one of these sheds," I said as I
collapsed on the ground next to a huge stack of tools and boxes.
"Tell me about it," Freddy said. He opened a small box. I remembered it since it
had weighed about eight million pounds and I'd nearly busted my gut carrying it
out of the shed.
"What's in it?" I asked.
"Fishing magazines," Freddy said. "Dad hasn't fished in years. Guess it goes in the
I helped him drag it over. We'd decided to sort everything into three piles: recycle,
keep, and throw out. Toward the end of the cleanup, I opened a box that was filled