My Cardboard Balcony

The Has-Been of Ninth Street by Belinda Roddie The has-been of Ninth Street had once been known as a great entertainer, conjurer, and social man who could brew up a storm of laughter, snap a card out in a blur, and buy rounds for each patron in a bar. The ladies fawned for his smile, his booze-stained libido, and his coin tricks. "Sir, you are a temptation," they would croon from the pane of his window. Yes, this has-been had sought the attention of thousands, no, millions of adoring eyes, and he truly thought he'd be the greatest Is-Now of all. Then people moved on. Just like that. Not one wave goodbye to the nice temporary grave.

People tend to be happier when they get a bronze medal instead of a silver. Like Jake, for instance. He got bronze and did a victory lap around the racetrack, shouting his head off with the stars and stripes spray-painted yet somehow still billowing on his back. His brother, Tom, two years back, got silver for the same meter run. He wanted to melt it down and make himself a watch. Because to him, that seemed more productive than remembering he could have gotten gold.