Answer:
Normally, he goes clean-shaven into the world, but the promise of a Saturday
liquid with sunshine draws him first from his study to the backyard, from there to his
front lawn. The smell of burning leaves stirs the memories of childhood car
rides, narrow lanes adrift with yellow leaves, girls on plodding horses, unattended
stands piled high with pumpkins, onions, or beets so that each one was, in its own way,
a still life. Always, there were salmon tins glinting with silver, set above hand-painted
signs instructing purchasers to deposit twenty-five or fifty cents. This act of faith
containing all the stories he has read in childhood about the North – cabins left
unlocked, filled with supplies for hapless wayfarers – wakes in him a desire to
temporarily abandon the twice-cut yards and hundred-year-old oaks.
He does not hurry for he has no destination. He meanders, instead, through the neat
suburban labyrinth of cul-de-sacs, bays and circles, losing and finding himself endlessly.
Becoming lost is made all the easier because the houses repeat themselves with
superficial variations. There grows within him, however, a vague unease with
symmetry, with nothing left to chance, no ragged edges, no unkempt vacant lots, no
houses rendered unique by necessity and indifference.
Step-by-step explanation: