Bonfire of the Pickle Barrels

Fiction

He tossed his good coat to his cousin, who wasn’t well and would wander from their basement apartment.

At least Trevor would be moving steady, banging pickle barrels, a pot, and a tailpipe, keeping him warm as he entertained the waves of people.

Even the glow of the signage on the arena had an illusion of warmth.

His lucky hat hung from the handle of a fourth barrel, mouth gaping, hungry for bills and change.