When I worked at my late uncle’s junkyard during junior high school, one of the regular customers (a crusty coot who resembled a cantankerous Roy Rogers sidekick wannabe) assured us that he luxuriated in a steaming bathtub each and every night.
We were skeptical, but it still burned in my brain an image of grimy tumbling tumbleweeds popping through the suds. Brrrrr.
Anyhow, for the past several…