Post Horn Serenade

by Jeff Baker

“I can’t believe it’ still there!” Chet said.

“I can’t believe they closed it up!” Willie said.

The two sixty-somethings were standing in the glass-enclosed hallway at the front of the old shopping center. They were staring at a metal rectangle in the stone wall just under the window of the chain hardware store that had been a chain grocery when they were kids.

They could barely make out the worn raised words in the metal at the top of the rectangle: U.S. MAIL.

“Look, the slot has cement in it.” Chet said pointing.

“Yeah,” Willie said. “Not going to mail a letter today. Oh well, I pay my bills online now.”

“I haven’t been to this shopping center in years,” Chet said.

“Not much of a shopping center anymore.” Willie said. “Hardware store here, couple of restaurants down that way,” he pointed. “And the sports store that used to be a dress shop and will probably be something else next month.”

Chet laughed.

“Hey, remember the sign on the grocery store doors? Those glass doors that opened automatically?” Willie said.

“I loved those!” Chet said. When I was about eight I used to wiggle my nose before they opened!”

Willie nodded. “Yeah. The doors had the picture of a sad-faced Basset Hound and the words ‘Sorry Fellows, State Law Says You Must Stay Outside.’”

“I wanted one of those dogs.” Chet said. “But I remember mailing that letter to you from right here when you were off in College.”

“Oh yeah. That one.” Willie said. “It was the early Eighties and we weren’t out yet?”

Chet nodded. “Yeah, but I asked you out anyway.”

“I remember.” Willie said.

“You know if this was a lifetime movie, we’d both kiss and say ‘Happy Anniversary.’” Chet said.

Willie laughed. “Your husband and my boyfriend might take issue with that!”

“Oh yeah!” Chet laughed.

“Hey, you invited me out to eat,” Willie said. “Let’s walk down here.”

“Okay.” Chet said as they started walking to the other end of the shopping center, past the years they remembered.

—end—