For a show at the arena.
“Only ten dollas,” the barker cries.
Lightweight cardboard sabers in shades of pastel blue. No blinking LED lights as far as I can see.
I’m hopeful the salesman is also hocking imagination, too.
Hordes of children under the age of eight, a flock of superheroes wearing expressions of anticipation and glee. Guardians in tow, some hold gloved hands tightly, a look of sheer determination on their face as they approach the crowds. The carney holds my attention for just a moment longer and then I make a sharp right, descending underground.
It’s Saturday morning. At their age, I remember waking to the aroma of coffee and French toast (or pancakes), racing down the stairs to beat my brother to the prime space on the couch. We would vie for control of the television and the morning cartoon line-up a hodge podge of Hanna-Barbera and Warner Bros., the escapades of a miming cat and mouse and the clever antics of Wile E. Coyote.
The train jerks forward.
It’s horn blaring as we enter the station. It’s not quite 11 AM, and the car and platforms are nearly deserted. The only sign of life: faces focused on a much smaller screen.