I don't live in a great section of town. Rust-eaten Caddys bottom out in potholes. Street-corner peddlers proffer pharmaceuticals. Advertisements never tout refurbished rentals. My building, largely vacant, is all crumbling plaster, peeling paint, spotted carpet. Then there's the train, roaring by twice an hour mere yards away, sounding like some massive, antediluvian thing.
The oldtimers say you get used to it. But I'm searching the classifieds. Yesterday, I woke at 3 a.m. to the train-whistle's wail, a howl splitting the night. And I swear I heard, from deep in the tenement's bowels, an answering cry rise to meet it.
Postscript: To listen to audio of this and other stories, please download Season One of the I Saw Lightning Fall podcast here.