Nicholas Friedman

Now everywhere the pageantry of youth is on display: The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray plays fugue to puddle-froth; The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April ushers spring with lavender dripped from the upturned wing of wind-swept Gabriel. A youngish pair walks wired at the arms— she casually ribbing him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing their step to spare the worms stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter rises and goes drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows love’s not the song, but after— like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain that stains the walk long after falling, or the lifeless stalk still hoisting its head of grain. Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand. Their dark familiars stare back, reflected by the passing cars, with speechless reprimand. Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter, yet every burn will teach him how to run—and how to turn her wine back into water.

Half clown, half Keebler elf, he works a throng of meth heads and young mothers who peruse the storefronts, tugging surly kids along. The pant legs bunch around his wing-tipped shoes. When a couple walks up to his TV tray, he hands them each a tattered business card. Who wants to see a magic trick today? He grins and cuts a deck: His hands are scarred, but seldom shake. The two confer, agree, and fidget as the magician fans an arc of cherubs laced with flips of filigree. The man inspects them for a crease or mark, but they look clean. I’ve watched him do this trick for weeks now, each time to polite surprise: He hams it up; he lays the charm on thick. (As always, haughty jacks materialize.) The woman smiles and nods in mild content. Another trick: He pulls a wrinkled bill from his lapel and folds the president, explaining how a wise investment will turn one buck into ten—et cetera. He taps twice on the bill, a modest “one,” unfolds it square by square, and then voila!— the bust of Alexander Hamilton. They clap as the magician takes a bow. He’s greasy, but he’s on the up-and-up, and magic tricks are good enough for now. The woman floats a dollar to his cup.

Just north of town, a quaint Sargasso Sea for bric-a-brac: the barn, itself antique, spills over with a grab-bag panoply of outworn stock revalued as “unique.” Typewriters tall as headstones fill the loft where they’ve been ricked away like sacks of grain; a coffer yawns the must of oak—gone soft— when one man, squinting, lifts the lid to feign intrigue. Nearby, his wife surveys the smalls: art deco bangles bright as harpsichords, a glut of iron trivets, Christmas balls, Depression glass and warping Ouija boards. One man’s junk is another’s all the same. They don’t buy much, but that’s not why they came.