If, when you lift your thighs, they unstick with a rip from hot vinyl—if the knob,   from the station wagon’s back seat, is just out of reach, & Limbaugh’s on, rasping   about the AIDS epidemic, then surely it’s 1991, you’re seven years old,   & this is a kind of hell. & “spurious”, not yet in your vocabulary, will not   harrow you. So, when you peer over the hot tan sill, how will it seem if daddy,   a possible savior, stands, staring at day-olds, in the middle of Puritan   Bakery, unblinking for 20 minutes?…