A running start; a final, categorical heave-ho …
Then I stood there, in the middle of the dark street, wiping my gloved hands, watching the Clerical Clunker gain momentum as it rolled down that hill of metamorphosed limestone. It might have rolled all the way into the kiddie park as planned, too, had the owner of a certain white Buick Enclave done a better job of parallel parking.
With the Buick’s alarm cycling through its sequence of whoops, wails, yelps, and bleats, hands in my coat pockets, hugging the neighborhood’s grim shadows, not once looking over my shoulder, I hurried back up the hill to my tenement.
