January winds had been rattling the wood in my window frames all day. They beat an unsteady rhythm. The buzzer fell right into place, like a low-level percussion from the Gas Company Evening Concert. My last nickel was lonely for another nickel it could rub together with, so I went into the waiting room to see who was buzzing there. A young man stood between the window and an old red davenport, frozen between sitting to wait for me and mustering up the courage to knock on my office door. He wore a tailored, bluish-gray suit with flannel thinning around the knees and the elbows. It was the kind of suit that wore out before a kid like this could finish paying the mortgage on it. His eyes still darted from davenport to office door, but he added a glance at me into the cycle. With what sounded like his last breath, he croaked out, “Hello.” I set my office door into a wide swing and pointed inside. “Don’t just stand there drying out your tongue, Cream Puff,” I said. “Come inside and let’s jaw.”
What do You think about The Metaphysical Ukulele (2016)?
