On the sidewalk across from me, near the entrance to a barbecue joint, some people were holding an old-fashioned revival meeting. The barbecue cook, wearing a dirty white apron, his conked hair reddish and metallic in the pale sun, and a cigarette between his lips, stood in the doorway, watching them. Kids and older people paused in their errands and stood there, along with some older men and a couple of very tough-looking women who watched everything that happened on the avenue, as though they owned it, or were maybe owned by it.
| Game | Time | WPM | Accuracy |
|---|---|---|---|
| 15065 | 2020-01-03 06:59:09 | 95.98 | 98% |
| 7895 | 2019-01-31 21:24:33 | 76.98 | 97% |
| 3478 | 2018-09-19 09:27:39 | 68.59 | 97% |
| 2148 | 2018-09-02 15:31:18 | 66.02 | 99% |
| 1622 | 2018-08-22 15:46:50 | 64.18 | 98% |