Sunday, May 16, 2010

calliope


The cab reached the office tower, settled with the falsely optimistic once upon a middle manager, slid into the stream of cars heading north. The vendor on the corner didn't notice the middle aged man in a suit, a shadowy duplication of millions of middle aged men in suits, nor did he notice the cab, one of an army of cabs that patrolled the city. He served hot dogs and made change, and it was his first week as a hot dog vendor after years of selling pretzels, and he doubted the wisdom of his move. Hot dog customers were a finicky lot, wanting their mustard relish onion cheese just so, asking difficult questions about the meat: was it all beef? was it kosher? How the hell was he supposed to know? It was HOT DOG. What was kosher, any way, and if they cared so much, maybe they should start their own stand. And the pricing system he kept forgetting.



reading
dipping into Aliens in the Prime of their Lives
weather
bittersweet sunlight of departure