Behind Red Tape

Saturn’s Eve. Quarter to six. ‘Last Call,’ turns the tip jar into an alms-basket. The floor

clock during this gulp-surge ticks secondary to the heartbeat of securities broker, Gerry Kantz. His hands quake not of a jones, but pure trepidation. Striding home tonight, just might be the ninth symphony of ‘swill-walks.’ Blue hour could bring to his door, feet, from a ‘plumber’ he’s side-stepped since mid-March. Then, Kantz wasn’t aware the pull some have on the other side; ”two sides of the same coin,” they say.

Now, morning becomes noon, and, the neighbor’s dog is loose again. She takes a wiff of a far-fetched scent on the mat of a front door, that’s locked from within.

THE END