rdking.net

I am sleeping in the Barclay Hotel—$3 a night as the sign outside reads, and a hot shower down the hall. Carpet, in places:   there are two, cheap reproductions of a south sea isle and one of a lady at a charity ball clashing with the wallpaper, as does the tool company calendar with the blonde in the bathing suit—certain dates circled by previous occupants. The furnishings are prime for their period and worn by the years—the headlines bold and remembered. Even the light that finds its way in is exquisite in effect—marbled and drably sinister. And if I should rise from the bed to look from the window, other multi-story buildings lead down to the street where a few coupes wait adjacently for use. The sidewalks are empty, only sole-scuffed papers blow in and out of doorways, around corners. This may be war-time Chicago, or Duluth at the selfsame hour.

Except that now I can hear the cadence song of the witch's men non-directionally away. The stacato, in-step formation finds no hindrance in the corner of the block, only an opportunity for sidesteps, present arms, and tails in full twirl—then passes beneath my window vividly discolored by a neon sign.

It is surely a pagent for badges, a confirmation to keep the conquered eyes in awe. Docile, and in my pinwhale suit, I will lay my arms down.