(no subject)
The dreadlocked white kid shook his fist, and said things like solidarity, and corporations, and fair trade. He screamed, and the small crowd near the restaurant area of Wild Oats nodded, and said right on to whatever he said.
A girl, wearing a full length skirt, which looked as if it had been manufactured from a curtain, or purchased at a Goodwill passed out some fliers. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, and she stunk of hummus and patchouli, and had vivid blue eyes and nappy black hair.
The fliers told everyone, including Pete Limpelli, that they should superglue Starbucks locks, and drop caltrops in Wal-mart parking lots.
“Minchia,” Pete said. “I can really do something.”
Pete didn’t have superglue, but he had a lifetime supply of Kiwi shoe glue stashed in his social club, the Winged Tip Shoe in Queens.
So Pete made a point of packing the undercompartment in the trunk of his Town Car with tubes of shoe glue, to drive around, and be ready.
Pete would drive around early in the morning, before he went fishing, and squeeze globs of the foul, clear ooze into Starbucks locks, and hum big band jazz tunes.
Early that morning, on his way to Lake Me, as the streets of Sorbonne, Ohio hung silent and grey in the twilight, Pete Limpelli Kiwi shoe glued the locks on the door of the Sorbonne Starbucks.
William Comparetto
© 2006