I got one of them jack posts, and I done rigged ’er up under the mudroom there. Gave it a couple-three twists till the joists creaked.
While I was down there under the mudroom, with my legs out on the snow and my head in the last of the autumn leaves that had taken shelter behind the recycling bins, sort of cantilevered sideways into the space so I could get purchase on the wrench, I couldn’t help but remember the frites at L’Express, down there on Park Avenue. You know, you could go in there 24 hours a day and get some pretty tasty fries and a glass or two of wine, maybe even order up some onion soup. That was a good place to go after drinking downtown. Not as expensive as you’d think. And then you’d just hop a cab late in the Manhattan night, and if you weren’t too drunk, the night might smell promising and spring might be in the air.
I inhaled deeply, lost in the memory — and realized that one of the local stray cats had marked the recycling bins as his territory not long before.
Door’s still stuck, but I figure I’ll give the post a screw every weekend till we can open it again.