| Three
This was the summer of the transit worker's strike, when all through the city there was no bus no trolley and no El Train. Like many people where we lived, you and I and Dante had no car. Nor at that moment did I have money for a taxi or for any of the hacks who had taken to the street in droves, men and (women too) renting out their cars to anybody needing a ride. So I walked briskly in the direction of Murk, hoping I would not be too late. I joined the lines of people walking in the street, ignoring the lanes, the edges of pavements. I ran into Clayton's father in a suit and sneakers. (Asked him for a taxi loan, but again no go). I ran into Mrs. Thompson from up the street. She went on about her garden thwarted by the detours that walkers took across its flowerbed. She went on about how good it was to see me back in the neighborhood, despite the terrible state of things. Page three |