My Cardboard Balcony

Hiccup Brew by Belinda Roddie August was deceivingly short, so when September swept in wearing slippers, I took it upon myself to visit every pub in the autumn and savor a draft from a frosted glass every day. It was around the beginning of the leaves' descent that I found a friend with a chronic case of hiccups, which gave his words a rhythm like no other, and I could pound out an accompaniment with my fists on the bar table as the other patrons, and the bartender, listened in. I asked him,  "Do you do anything to fix your hiccups? Like,  what's the doctor's orders?" And he smiled and said, "Doctor's-mm-orders? Mm-no. I-mm-enjoy-mm-my little ditty." And so he did, because he was his own little record player, with the needle skipping once in a while, in always that mm-mm-mm murmur, swilling brew so the bubbles crackled with the curve of his throat.

"He's very timid, isn't he?" We watched him by the window, seeing how he kept to himself in the corner of the daycare center. A small, pink stuffed dinosaur lay on its back beside him - plush, big-toed feet pointed up to the ceiling, nowhere to stand or walk on. I nodded and looked at the daycare director. "Don't worry," I said. "Nothing serious - he's just introverted. Some day, the kids will understand that."