Chapter 6-- The Untended Carriage

were anyone to observe across the widely spaced avenue of Broadbridge street they
would have easily seen the tired man in overalls standing like a statue beside the old
carriage. obviously, he was still uncertain what to do, since the limousine had left in such a hurry.

then, with a decisive burst, he lumbered to the narrow club entrance between restaurant and
theatre, and up the darkened steps to the manager's office, (for nowhere else did it lead).

leaving the untended carriage, full of nothing more than dirt-covered vegetables, to list and
eventually veer away, in a more or less straight line, with its now-familiar, blind drawhorse.

it must have been urgent for the man to leave the pitiable beast in such a hurry.


at least, in a criminal interrogation, that would make a good story.

the man in the red shirt had a restless turn, at every other moment while standing,
more or less idly near the smooth stone bench.
he could study the bench seat and its minuscule pores , nearly abraded away by time and use.
listen to the paper lanterns, red as his shirt, writing curlicues in the wind from the bridge.

there was the huge unsightly billboard in the vacant field to the west.
or watching his shoes as they again slid the crushed bootblack lid further along south, down
the broad paving stones.

but, especially, then, and thereafter for the longest sets of moments, he could stare curiously at
the derelict buildings across the street, the carriage, and the near static man beside it.

he could take in at least three of the buildings on this end of the block, he had realized
over the course of this afternoon, without even moving his head. the dress shop, the
restaurant, and the theatre. wondering for a time, with each orbit of his restless motions,
if there were ever anything still of interest in the forlorn aspect of this defeated area.


or that is how he seems, to the man in overalls, standing in terrified paralysis, pretending
not to look at the man in the red shirt, (he should have worn one himself THAT day...), so
horribly unable to act. the blind horse nudges his leg, as if to bring him back to a reality he
has no hope of escaping.