We’d sit up in the water tower turret and listen for sirens. Every few minutes, crack a new can of cheap swill. There was an old man tavern a block or so off the main drag and they’d package cold sixers for anyone who could see over the bar. A few beers in, if you slit your eyes, and looked down at the traffic, the taillights blurred to a red infinity. We’d laugh all the way down the ladder.
by Hank Cherry