Life Street and Death Boulevard
For some of us, evening is when the day begins. Sunglasses adjusted as the sun’s at horizon level. Quick smoke on the fire escape, breathing in the scent of rain on the asphalt. A freshly dry-cleaned slate gray suit holds a scribbled name in the left hand coat pocket. I pulled the note out from inside, glanced at the name. Lit it with a match and placed it in a half-full ashtray. Watched it burn down to smoke and ash. Went over and heated up a pot of coffee. A million thoughts entered my head, then I narrowed it down to just one: Funny how things often meet at the corner of Life Street and Death Boulevard. All the guy connected to the pocket note had to do was keep his trap shut for six months. There, was that so difficult, I might’ve said to him at a chance meeting in a dive bar in Brooklyn we both frequented. Maybe we could’ve shared a drink and a laugh. Now look where we are, is probably what I’ll say to the back of his head, sometime in the next 48 hours. Why do people got to be that way? When I locate him after much effort and shoe leather, I won’t be in a laughing mood. Come to think of it, neither will he. Placed my coffee cup in the sink, put on my coat and hat, and walked downstairs and uphill to the corner phone booth on Ninth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Street. The voice on the other end of the line enquired, “Got the note?” I replied, “Yep.” He hung up. I glanced over my shoulder at the downhill incline of Forty-Eighth leading to The Hudson River, above which the evening clouds shaped like ripped-paper patterns were having one hell of a time, with cranberry and peach colors hanging in the sky like life was one big party.
Thanks kindly, Alisa Kennedy Jones!