My Cardboard Balcony

The Corduroy Jacket by Belinda Roddie The corduroy jacket had pockets lined with saltshakers, yo-yos, and a small tin of anchovies. Not what I had in mind when I rummaged through it while I was in the attic, sorting Uncle Chester's things that had accumulated for the past seventeen years. But then I found a ring, a simple silver one, one I had last seen on my aunt's hand, now in an inside fold of the old coat. There was no jewel perched on the band, but the woman never tried to change it. I guess Uncle Chester first did not want to take it when she had died, but it was his to remember her by.

They called themselves the Pseudo-Canadians. They wanted to be Canadians, but they were from Washington so close, but no cigar. Not even a cheap cigarette. Lots of booze, though. And one dollar candy bars. They sat by the border on the weekends, chewing on chocolate and pretending to talk in very bad Canadian accents. One guy named Tony was pretty gross and decided to take a bottle of maple syrup with him, drinking it like it was scotch.