the paper

Summer Fiction

A soft and rhythmic humming tickles your feet as you exit Beer City with a six pack of Miller Chill slung beneath each fist, a humming that seems to originate from Arthur Avenue, Tribar, perhaps, but completely unbecoming of Howl, Mugz, or Ziggy’s.  Blinded by a fluorescent quantum of solace, an effect produced by gas stations on either side of a road, each sporting a metal façade lined with white lights that plays umbrella for patrons buying gas or gambling for teddy bears or small animals and that leaves you completely unawares of life in the darker more naturally lit surrounding areas, you stand oblivious of the happenings beyond Fordham Road as the night on Arthur Ave fades into a sloppy darkness.  But the humming beckons, and the allure of loud music and all its vibrations coupled with images of alcohol-soaked bodies writhing in an Eden of decadence challenges your previously planned night of Miller Chill and Wes Anderson movies.  Some shit’s going down somewhere, and you’re about to stick your goddamn foot in it. (Aren’t you?).   (more…)