Harry, by David Barrows
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For some reason I found myself at the Detroit Grand Prix auto race many years ago. I was a guest of the government of Michigan, and we had a very nice booth. We were outside and had the usual booth treatment: refreshments, drinks, and attractive young ladies to serve. The booth was at a corner, a turning point. I was told that this was very prestigious but I'm not sure why. There was an awful sound followed by a car turning the corner. That's it, nothing more and nothing less.