Quotes About Refrigerated truck

Was it the voice of a demon? It did not take me long to discover that it was my own voice, the voice of my superego guiding my dream like a pilot with nerves of steel, it was the super-I driving a refrigerated truck down the middle of a road engulfed in flames, while the id groaned and rambled on in a vaguely Mycenaean jargon. My ego, of course, was sleeping. Sleeping and toiling.

My dad was a meat peddler who drove a refrigerated truck. He bought his meat in Sheboygan, Wis., and sold it to stores in the region. He was a terrific salesman. People loved and trusted him, and he never let anyone down.

My neighborhood is known for its old rich people and, subsequently, its hospitals. The closest of them now had a refrigerated truck parked outside in which dead bodies were being stored.