Skyward Lace
Godfather Enbestman torched a Camel Light underneath a fire escape off the corner of Lawrence and Broadway. He was contemplating the rust on the edges of the ladder. “Too many winters, not enough safety,” he thought. A white swirl emerged from the rooftop. The streetlights made it appear as aged lace. Godfather knew better; well, felt decent. One more drag. Time for another.
Echoes of the Green Mill waltzed throughout the neighborhood’s chambers. Al Capone’s ghost ricocheted from underneath a liquor store’s banister. A Vietnamese man, drenched in chicken grease, locked his storefront and headed for his 1992 Honda Civic. Another trace of skyward lace.
“Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.” A few blue sparks and a screech followed by, “Lawrence. This is Lawrence. Doors open on the right. Argyle is next.” Soon, some more rumbling fading to the north.
A shout. Wait. Shouting.
Some people tripped by Mr. Enbestman’s path. He nodded. They acknowledged him, and headed to the adjacent ATM. A powerful wind bursts onto the scene introducing himself as winter’s prophet. Godfather did not mind this. Wind’s introduction was short and, more importantly, humbled by the building’s whimsy. Besides, Godfather’s thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere not at the building’s edge.
No. He whispered a mouthful of meaningless words only to discover that non-sequiturs, in fact, can have meaning. At least, in the proper context. The cusp of youth tipped toward nowhere. Well, somewhere, if one was staring at the gutter. A puffy eyelid emerged from a shadow. She does not love him anymore. A remnant of skyward lace fell upon Godfather Enbestman like a shroud of Proust.
- gypsy george.
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