The Street Where I Shiv

“Grandpa, tell me the story again,” the little snot-nose whined.

The old man sighed. On the other hand, there was no one else around and he was bored. And he did love having an audience.

“It was a long, long time ago,” he said easily. By now the story was an old friend. It was like slipping his toes into a well worn pair of penny loafers with old leather comfortably broken in. Not at all like plastic, like Crocs, that all the snot-nosed sons of bitches called “shoes” these days.

“I think the year was 2013. Yeah, that was the last time it happened. The likes of which the world has never seen again.”

“Back then,” the old man continued, “I was still able to drive a car. The snot noses hadn’t taken away my license yet in the name of public safety. I think I must have been about 104.”

“So there I was, minding my business, driving through town. Yup, yup. Don’t interrupt, snot nose. This town. The very same town you and I still call home.”

“You know,” the old man paused, reminiscing, “back then it was still possible to hit a green light.” He shook his head. It was best not to think about such things.

“What’s a green light,” the kid interjected.

“I told ya, snot nose. Don’t interrupt yer elders. You want the story or not?”
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