(no subject)
Henge walked down the block to the apartment building in which the radio station was. There was an exterior basement stairwell with a door wide open, beckoning in any fresh air in the mid August pate. Down the cement stair was a row of washing machines and dryers against a rough stone wall - hewn a century ago at least - cobbled stones laden with prehistoric sea creature fossils.
A blonde girl in her mid twenties was loading a washer. Henge waved, and said “Hi Sandy,” and Sandy smiled and said hi back.
Ducking under a cacophony of copper pipes, sheet metal duct work, and vile tubes all octopussing out of a terrible looking cauldron of a boiler - long since silenced for the summer. Henge gingerly nodded at the mean looking boiler - giving deference and respect to the power of the machine. Just beyond the tentacles of the boiler was a small alcove between craggy walls of fossil stone and sloppy cement bonds, and sitting in the alcove was Sam Golden who ran a eight AM to eleven sports show called Runnin’ Home.
Henge made his presence aware to Sam, and on top of a milk crate against the wall near the alcove, and shuffled through the manila envelope, formulating, once again, the tack of his Hubba Bubba show. Henge wanted to definitely talk about the pending naval battle on Lake Me.
William Comparetto
© 2007