Frederick M. Spalding...why now, of all the times, would that name choose to enter my head? At the top of the Empire State Building in mid-January, no shoes, an appreciable bulge in my left jean jacket pocket (it's so freakin' cold up here!) and a bright yellow umbrella bearing a rather large burn hole near the edge? I feel I've led a good life; I've looked after my friends, been kind to animals, and never killed a soul. That should earn me a little...I don't know...leeway? Maybe...I was never very eloquent in our Mother Tongue. Tongue. Now there's a weird word. Jesus! I think I've lost the feeling in my pinkie toe.
I'm outta here.
But no, I had promised. Me and my stinkin' promises! I wish I could be like the people I'd hidden away from for all those decades. People like...Frederick M. Spalding. Frederick M. Spalding. He is not smiling. His face is smooth behind the oversize glasses. Can you hear me, Frederick? Can you hear me in your dreams forty years ago? Can you hear me whispering in your ear?
GodDAMN, it's cold.
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