Member-only story
A King Drops a Dime
Some Things Never Change
Coq Au Vin, that’s what I am making this evening. It’s a classic French dish — braised chicken in a silky wine sauce. And, of course, I don’t have any wine. After ravaging through my kitchen cupboards in hopes I will find a bottle. I realize it is futile. I haven’t any wine. It’s not a hardship; the liquor store is only four blocks away. It’s a crisp November night. I put on a purple down vest over my fisherman sweater and head out.
I curse under my breath when I arrive. The metal grates are pulled down over the front window and front door. The liquor store is closed. Defeated, I turn to go up the street, and I see an African American man approaching. A fog trailing behind him.
What’s on fire that smoke is in the air? Hmmph! It’s New York City. What’s not on fire? But why don’t I smell anything burning?
He looks familiar, with dark skin, a square jaw, and a neat mustache above his lip. But I can’t place where I’ve seen him before. Why is he wearing a gray suit and that skinny black tie? Maybe he’s a musician on his way to a gig.
I stand frozen until he reaches me, and he asks in a booming voice.
“Miss, where is the nearest payphone?
After I revel in that he called me Miss and not Mam, I realize the absurdity of his…
