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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Some Things Are Universal” Down in the Dirt v208 (6/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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The Sirens of Slack Street
Terry Sanville
At the sidewalk café, Oscar tilted his wineglass skyward, making sure every last drop slid into his mouth. His meal and dessert had vanished leaving barely a memory. He stared into the distance. Clots of office workers window-shopped along crowded sidewalks. Late vacationing couples strolled the downtown streets, searching for the Old Mission – that was right in front of them.
Groaning, Oscar stood, buttoned his denim jacket and walked toward the high ridgeline of hills that overlooked the city. He moved without purpose but as fast as he could push his body. Passing people stared at him. He checked his fly and found it zipped, the crotch of his jeans free of wet spots, his jacket clear of wine stains, broad-brimmed hat sitting properly on his head, hiding his baldness.
I guess they’re staring because I’m so handsome, he thought and chuckled. Yeah, right. You haven’t felt handsome since you walked these streets with Shirley, sixty years ago. Jesus, did I say that out loud? Can’t tell. Better watch it. The guys in white will haul me away.
At a stoplight he pushed the ped button then bent forward, hands resting on knees, his breath wheezing. A suited attorney-type guy with a briefcase walked up beside him.
“You okay, mister? Do you want some help?”
Oscar shook his head. “I’m doing fine. Just old.”
“You look like you could use some help.”
“Don’t we all. But no thank you.”
“Okay,” the man said but offered an arm as the light turned green. Oscar took it and they crossed the street. On the other side, the man asked, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes. I take walks every day. Keeps me feeling young.” Oscar laughed which changed into a ragged cough that shook his body. But he waved the man off and continued his trek.
The road slanted upward toward the surrounding hills and the University. Normally he avoided streets that had hills. But something drew him in that direction. Maybe it was the beginning of fall term and the influx of college students, a ritual that the city endured every year. Oscar resided in a downtown assisted-living hotel, had been there five years ever since Shirley died. But he hated the quiet and the slowness of life, the dull faces of residents sitting all day in the once-lively lobby. For him, moving through the air, sucking in each breath, seeing bright city colors, hearing the jumbled sounds of traffic or badly-played rock music all kept him from giving up. And so he’d become the town’s “walker.” Long-time residents blew their horns when motoring past. And people sitting on porches, mostly geezers like himself, would wave. Sometimes he would stop and chat – but not that day.
Nearing the University, Oscar turned off the main boulevard and wandered through an old housing area, once his home turf, occupied by college professors and their families. Now, a few of the houses sported the Greek symbols of fraternities and sororities with the roads and driveways clogged with SUVs and pickups. He remembered getting dressed up for dinner parties that he and Shirley attended, most sponsored by other English Department faculty. Afterward, they’d walk home arm-in-arm, the dark streets cloaked in thick fog, the city sounds muffled by the gray wetness that kissed their young cheeks.
As he shambled forward, Oscar noticed something strange. From streets that crossed the one he walked, young women poured from houses and moved toward him. They wore short dresses with heels, their voices sounding like birdsong. Long, perfectly-combed hair framed clear-skinned faces with pursed lips. Their faint floral perfumes scented the air. Must be some sort of fall term function. But it’s all girls!
As Oscar continued, the girls gazed at him with gleaming blue, brown, and green eyes, their smiles genuine, their partially-exposed breasts offering the promise of youthful adventure. Oscar stared, felt his face grow hot. More and more young women packed the sidewalk, hundreds, maybe thousands. Some nodded as they passed. Others offered a “Good afternoon” or “Have a nice day.”
Oscar stared at a tall brunette with a perfect figure, felt his right foot hit something solid. He stumbled and lurched sideways, crashed into a shoulder-high fence covered in trumpet vines that bordered the sidewalk, then fell onto the hard concrete. His eyesight dimmed and the roar of his breathing filled his head. Slowly, the light returned and he sat up and shook himself. He gazed upward at the brunette, surrounded now by her girlfriends. He could see almost to heaven.
“Sir, are you hurt?” she asked. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“Not yet,” Oscar croaked and with the help of young slender hands pulled himself up.
“Do you have any pain?” a soft voice asked and Oscar turned. She had green eyes and a dusting of tiny brown moles across her bare shoulders.
Oscar sucked in more breaths, buying himself time. He ran his hands down his arms and legs and across his hips. “No pain.” He took a step; his legs felt strong. A low electric current surged through his body. More young women gathered around, staring, laughing, chattering.
“Do you live near here?” a light sienna Latina asked.
“Not anymore. Years ago when I taught at the University my wife and I had a house right up this street. Now I live in a . . . . a downtown hotel.”
“Allie, I think you and Sarah should walk this gentleman home,” the Latina said. “We’ll save your places at the conference.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Oscar said. “I can make it.”
“You sure?” Allie asked. “We’re happy to get you home safe.”
“I’m sure. Now hurry off to your conference. I’ll be fine and . . . . and thank you, all of you.”
Oscar turned away from the group of beautiful women and retraced his route, his stride deliberate, body and mind humming. He could almost feel the soft kiss of fog on his cheeks once again.
