Each year, late in the fall, lake Michigan turns it’s gunmetal face towards Milwaukee and attempts to kill the city.
The year is 1963 and a shapeless, dreamless man takes refuge in the orange warmth of the new Schiltz Guest Hall.
He works for Pabst.
His life revolves around a certain lever, on a certain machine, beneath an endlessly turning flywheel.
As the wind outside hisses threats and throws ice, the man is thinking that this year the lake will succeed.
He drinks from the new brown bottle.
Winter thunder falls from somewhere above the 9th ward.
The trophy hunter chandeliers dim, flicker and then flare.
Antler shadows darken the hall and every face but his turns to the windows as the wind screams them loose.
The man is watching the dark cage of shadows and instead sees levers all around him.
It is 11am and he is late for work.
He drinks again and sweats.
No comments:
Post a Comment