In Death give Thanks

The floor of the Balcony is littered with empty cups, swizzle sticks, sunflower seeds, ticket stubs, expired ID cards, a ball of yarn, a baby’s pacifier, a grocery list, a dime, half a business card, (left by one Jeff Norton, a financial services salesman from Utah), popcorn seeds, a twisted straw, a discount coupon for a health club, a red playing card (eight of Hearts), and a cocktail napkin with this note, printed in block letters with black lipstick: “I never loved you!” The janitor is on strike, picketing on the front sidewalk, angry and determined to stay out there as long as it takes. “Hey ho, the Balcony has got to go!” The owner is sitting in a dark room contemplating his own death, and how it is unwise to attach too much to any thing, place or person. He’s thinking of his place in the world, the long line of humanity stretching before him, miles and miles of the departed, most with a story to tell. It’s a sad thing when people go to their graves with stories yet untold. The stories die with them. We build the future on the past’s bones. There’s no business on Thanksgiving Day anyway, only the lonely and the young and the crazy walking State Street; the Metropolitan Theatre is open, Blue Bee Jeans is closed. The mannequin in the Blue Bee window is stunning, a Paris Hilton type with a lascivious smile. “Boys, I know you want to do me!” The Rescue Mission is doing brisk business for the down and out, the forgotten and the eternally lost, the unlucky; a wealthy family from Montecito works the serving line to absolve the guilt they feel for having so much while others have so little. The Faulding is full to capacity. Starbucks is open, ready and willing to serve the few foreign tourists out wandering. A Belgian couple peers in the window at Joe’s Café. The afternoon light fades. The steady chant of “Hey ho, the Balcony has got to go!” brings the owner back to his own reality, the contemplation of losing every thing, every person, and every place one has ever loved. The city of his youth is dead, replaced by a theme park, a “destination” reviewed and pimped in travel magazines and Auto Club brochures. Come and play on the American Riviera! He feels like crying but no tears will come. Strangely, contemplating his own death makes him thankful.