Pool_1

>> Jazz Man <<

Descending South Mountain was like floating in a dream. The truck felt as though it were still as surroundings passed. In fact, it didn't move through reality, but rather reality mixed with memory and anticipation. Very little of that seen in the mental eye was still there, except as ghosts. Thus specters of the old city streets passed the Piper, streets frozen in past times. There were the familiar shops, the place where the best Italian ices were sold - tucked away behind open sacks of dried beans, stacked dried cod fish, hanging salamis and cheeses, penned chickens in quaint bucolic squabble - and so past the wooden wheeled trade stands with their bowing shelves of Italian condiments. Father Joe, actually now monsignor, secreted here regularly for delicacies and home spun conversation among his childhood buddies. Joe. What a character! Devilishly handsome, dark haired, rosy cheeked, a tall, blue eyed stud. "What a hunk," as mom would say. Every one of her girl friends wanted this guy. A good athlete, even now he was a sure win in basketball and bocci. She put her hands on her own waistline for clarity, "What a waist," as Jazz Man laughed at her enthusiasm. Father Joe was also a dastardly card player who openly bragged about his abilities to cheat. It was well known that his winnings went into the orphanage fund. Even so, the guys made him go shirtless, except for his holy scapula - which they also inspected - only his trim muscular hairy chest was allowed. His favorite defense was, "Life is cards and life isn’t fair." "Hey Joe, cut the shit. Where'd you pull that card from?" "That chicken."