|
fantasy story of Masami Tachiki :
| |
e
number of vodka-tonics, he finally makes his move. He plunks a
couple of quarters into the jukebox and picks out a few songs.
First a song a little slower than whatever is playing, anything
would prove a welcome respite to the incessant Barry Manilow and
Bee-Gees, then a classic show tune, and then the polkas.
Wednesday nights are his favorites, the crowd is a good mix of
young and old. The working stiffs are tired, and will leave at
the slightest provocation once the clock gets past ten-thirty -
his song selection providing that impetus. The older folks, his
real friends, were in no hurry, they lived for their polkas,
bingo and gin. Those that remained were either other kids like
himself, the invisible hangers-on that slipped in and out of
society as it suit them, or else people with a need - a shoulder
to cry on, a drink to lean on, or a body to press against in the
night, to wash away whatever chains of shame or loneliness or
guilt bind them into that closed box of urban night life.
She's in this last group, he's sure. He slowly winds his way
over t
|
|
