I am wrapped in plastic and other nonsense.  Matt, Rachel, and the others sit and watch, for once.  I deserve a taste of my own medicine, after all I’ve put them through.  I pile memories into a heap on the floor: an army jacket, a corset, and surgical tape; coveralls, a striped tee, and a handful of fake guns.  Ten years of rehearsals sure accumulate a lot of gak.

I vacuum the floor and clear my ears.  I start the music.  That music.  I unpack more: the kitty cat, the crab babies, Mystic Pizza, and a couple of overdue apologies.

I turn my leg inside-out.  I tap dance.  I blow bubbles instead of ringing the bell.  Time check?

They deserve more than this fifteen minutes of fame, for all they’ve given me.

The Oyster Girl …

The Carpet Cleaner …

Bill …

Julia …

Dicky and Margaret …

I don’t know where I’m going, but I sure know where I’ve been.

We have too much baggage for the brewery now, so we opt for brunch at the new place on the corner.  North Brooklyn has changed.  But, then again, so have we.  Michelle can’t stop the music this time, because she’s holding the baby.

I’d say this ain’t bad… for a start.