My ears were ringing with what you whispered just before I let you out. As soon as the door closed, I backed out of the driveway out into the street, knocking over the garbage cans that sat empty on the devilstrip. The familiar smell of burning rubber became visible under my car as the tires squealed in my effort to escape you, to escape the loudness of your soft voice.I rolled down the window and inhaled the smell of burning leaves. I left you on Long Street, where you told me to drop you, and did not care if you made it back to your house, I just needed to find my way back to The Clark, to Gerry and the boys, to feel the burn of Pall Malls and the familiar weight of a frosty mug of Lisner’s.You were standing outside of the library downtown when I saw them surrounding you. The boys from North Hill. They had their cans of Burkhardt’s and were taunting you for no real reason. I pulled up and flung open my door to you, a stranger, and grabbed the tire iron from the backseat. They scattered and I helped you into the front. You were shaking but your face did not betray fear.

You told me quietly where you lived, and I drove slowly past Goodyear and Firestone through Gooseburry where the Germans lived and into the shiny suburban brightness of the October afternoon, hazy from the leaf fires and the mills.

You remained silent for the ride home, sitting quite still, and this unnerved me. I fiddled with the radio, WADC playing some be-bop number. You reached down and switched off the radio.

You can leave me here, you said.

I slowed, stopped the car. You looked me in my eyes for the first time and whispered it.

You don’t love her. You should tell her.

You got out of the car.

You did not look at me again after you spoke. Not after I dropped you off in the driveway not yours. Now I turn around. Surely you haven’t made it home. With your deliberate steps on uneven sidewalks, careful not to fall and break a hip.

Slowly I drove up and down Long Street. Around the block. All of the streets were empty. Chimneys spewed black smoke. No children played in any of the yards.

I parked. I sat on the curb, smoking, feeling the coming cold of the winter and of my marriage closing in on me.

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I wrote the story out longhand as quickly as possible with a 30 minute time limit. No editing. I did leave blanks for some of the historical facts, which I later filled in via Wikipedia, Google Maps, the CPFA Wiki and beerhistory.com. The story was inspired by the below photo,
found over @ Big Happy Funhouse.