My Cardboard Balcony

Ghirardelli Guy by Belinda Roddie Have you heard of the Ghirardelli Guy? He passes out hot chocolates after five, when the summer turns to dead winter at night; he'll add whipped cream if you're extra polite. The Ghirardelli Guy is eight feet tall, though his eyes and ears are very small. He's dark and thin like an electric wire, smiling with teeth as worn as a tire. He used to run a booth beside the bay, not far from where tourists bought their sundaes, all scooped and served with Ghirardelli treats, a city staple that could not be beat. The owner of the Ghirardelli shop was not fond of the odd and lanky fop selling hot chocolates melted from its brand, so she asked him to move his cocoa stand. So now he walks up and down Market Street, handing the homeless cups of confection sweet. The drinks are well-received, with twinkling eye. So skips along the Ghirardelli Guy.

Chester mowed the lawn, while Rosalyn raked the leaves. Their father drank a spiked iced tea on the porch, his eyes already glazing over despite the fact that it wasn't even afternoon yet. The heat would encroach the neighborhood in about an hour or so, so the teens were doing their best to get the yard work done before they were caught in a sweltering, humid haze.