(no subject)
Ripping down Harrison Avenue in his Lincoln Towne Car, Pete Limpelli cursed under his breath. He cursed, and gnawed on his tea tree oil toothpick, and listened to his big band music, and thought about the whole Lake Me wager. Carmine Calamari. He thought about the Winged Tip Shoe.
Pete, not knowing the Greater Cincinnati Area, wheeled all the way down Harrison, down the careening hills and turns, through housing projects, and sediment of once suburbs. The Towne Car, with its air shocks, and deft suspension carved effortlessly down to the Cincinnati Valley. Pete looked, as he drove, out his side window. Dilapidated houses clinging to hillsides. Homes, once proud investments of first generation Americans hung in semi ruin, with trash laden porches. Long staircases leading from the sidewalk cast in cracked grey concrete, and overgrown with neglect.
Pete Limpelli had no idea where he was going. He just needed to get his bearings straight. To cool off. To re-center his ki. Pete Limpelli had to reassess what it was he was doing here.
William Comparetto
© 2006