The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued
Page 576
Eighth Floor
The Eighth Floor Memory
Old Billy sat in his creaky armchair, the kind that groaned louder than he did when he stood up. His eyelids drooped, not from fatigue but from the weight of memory. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes like coins in a tin cup, and that was all it took.
He was eight again.
The year was 1963, and the city was a blur of bustle and Christmas lights. Macy’s on 34th Street loomed like a cathedral of commerce, its windows dressed in mechanical elves and snow-dusted trains. Billy’s small hand was tucked inside his father’s calloused palm, the kind of grip that said, “You’re safe, kid.”
They entered through the revolving doors, and his father; always a man of quiet rituals, marched them straight to the elevator. Not the escalator. No, this was a day for ceremony. The elevator operator wore a red vest and a bored expression, but Billy was too enchanted to care. His father said, “Eighth floor,” and the operator pulled the lever like he was launching a rocket.
Ding.