Dark streets, electric lighting. The house store across the way is closed.
We walk; the woman does not face me, only talks, and I am not listening. My attention drifts over the night scene as we go, now on a familiar street from my childhood. It looks like the sun is out, shining down on the leaves of tall trees. Distracted, our arrival at a place unfamiliar to that memory jars briefly.
Crazy Bruce's Liquor Store. The man himself waits out front at a wooden folding table. I ask "What goes with scotch?" at the dock, and he claims tequila. I immediately insist on a chemical proof, to which he shrugs and begins to prepare a steaming mixture in a stubby cylinder. My faceless guide tells me to ignore him and pushes me in line to get what we came for.
Standing in the queue behind twins— thin bodied, short hair bleached white, one in pink tee, one in pastel blue button-up, both in khaki pants. Smiles exchanged. Open wallet to find money and ID, but there is only a business card. It reads:
GROWLER AVENUE, INC.
There follows a low rumbling sensation from all around.