A bunch of people in Morningside loved Lawrentz Buchanan.
He had a cousin in the meat business, and always donated something to fundraisers and funeral celebrations.
He’d pause his round at Chandler Park and help a young golfer learn the proper way to get out of a sand trap.
Those lessons were probably smoother because the golf course was the only place Lawrentz “Way Low,” Buchanan didn’t bring his albino python, Viking.
Way Low loved snakes, and golf and the lottery.
Everyday around 4:15 he’d go up to Stan’s EBT Fresh Sanwich Paliss to get twenty one 3 digits, his late dad’s birthday in the four digit, and one Fantasy Five, so maybe he could get out of the freelance graphic design biz, and open up an exotic pet shop.
Most people meeting Way Low for the first time jumped at the sight of Viking wrapped around his neck.
Sports fans meeting Way Low for the first time, after the initial shock of Viking, always told him he looked like Shannon Sharpe, and he liked to joke that they meant Shannon’s cousin, Denzel Washington.
Viking was harmless, unless you were a rodent, and he mostly ate his frozen.
Stiletto heels weren’t harmless at the end of the wrong legs, and as Way Low and Viking turned the corner on Alter he saw the wobbliest pair of stilettos he’d ever seen.
At first glance Way Low thought the person might have been from the Grosse Pointes, just across Alter, where the per capita income was nearly double Detroit. It was a place in the world where people were geographic neighbors, but rarely neighborly at all.
But the person sticking up out of the stilettos was rather grimy, underdressed for the weather, devoid of jewelry and carrying a bag/purse of some kind that seemed to be alternately swinging them off balance, then acting as ballast, keeping them upright.
As the person crossed the gravel strewn alley off Mack Avenue, they wobbled, nearly lurched into the street, then righted themselves just enough to use the wall of Stan’s as a landing spot, dropping the bag and sort of sliding along the wall, a few flakes of paint trailing behind them.
The person’s hair was long, and as they wobbled a hint of breast showed through the side of a red, spaghetti strap shirt.
Way Low took longer strides and called “Miss?”
The wobbly person took a few awkward strides, left shoulder and head still rubbing the wall of the store.
Not even Stan or Haddie Drift will sell booze to someone that bombed.
Way Low heard a car, the crunch of the tires on broken cement and gravel. 50/50 shot they’d run over the purse.
He took two more long strides, looked to his left, had plenty of time, snatched up the faded red faux leather bag and called out.
“Excuse me,” Way Low said. “You dropped this.”
A drunk left palm slapped
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