10.29

[Man am I ever terrible at updating this blog]


"Charles M Sweeney," the sign read, and it did his heart good to read it. "Charles M Sweeney," he slowly intoned. The words had a pleasant sound, and rolled slightly as they left the safety of his mouth to encounter the wide world beyond. "Charles M Sweeney," more like "Chuck," he thought. Not too pretentious, he hoped, to put up a nearly full name, the only mystery veiled behind an enigmatic "M" which he would tell all passers-by stood for "Montgomery," if only they asked. But of course, people always expect silly answers to questions like "what's the 'M'" and they would have been disappointed if they had ventured the query.
Somehow, Charles "Chuck" Montgomery Sweeney had found himself outside his business, staring at his own sign, wondering how to get in, and all the elegance of the lettering, all the quality of the veneer, all the belabored elaborate scrollwork in the world couldn't tell him that the key was in the coat he left in the cab now traveling through the square, freed from all responsibility and enjoying its life very much.
Perhaps he should have changed the sign to "Chuck."