Quiet Night

There was no need to rush last night.

The father moved slowly up the street as the son darted from the curb – where he watched a bus driver assist a disabled rider – to the storefront windows. The son moved quickly past the barbershop and the pizza joint and the barroom and the newsstand and the smoke shop.

“Hey,” the son shot. “Let’s go in the candy store.”

Red hots, cherry sours and chunks of pink bubblegum were stacked in the window.

“How about some ice cream?” the father asked.

“Yeah,” the son shouted.

“I’ll have a scoop of cherry vanilla in a sugar cone,” the father ordered.

“Me too,” the son said.

They sat on a bench and ate as the city streamed by.

“We’ll be at the ballgame come this time tomorrow,” the father said.

“All right,” the son said.

The son stopped for a moment and then asked:

“Do you think Derek Jeter gets cherry vanilla like us?”

“I bet he does,” the father said.

The son smiled.