Gentlemen’s Pugilist Association

They ended up at one of those secret no-name places, behind a bodega, up a flight of stairs, across a walkway, up more stairs, finally out onto a roof, over wood plank walkways through some kind of magical urban oasis overrun with plants, trees strung with hammocks and spindled with bright red chili-pepper lights, uncertain if Aran’d been there or had only heard of it from one of the guys in the Gentlemen’s Pugilist Association, maybe, or his shrink, or a new friend he’d made. For the last stretch, the walkway was painted yellow and Caitlin thought of the play Jonah’d been in, the yellow brick road, and when an older Puerto Rican man in a white suit over a T-shirt came over and started dancing with her, without bothering to ask if she wanted to, for surely that was the kind of place where everyone wanted to dance, she wondered which character he was supposed to be, maybe even the Cowardly Lion, although there was not much cowardly about him, that was for sure. The bartender poured the mojitos strong, the music was syrupy, the sounds of the city disappeared and it even seemed warmer, even tropical, for the fifteen minutes or so they were there before the NYPD came and shut the music down. It seemed to last much longer than that. The moon blazed liquid silver above them. She wished everything lasted longer.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *