i sit in the cold of new night.  an older couple walks briskly by and i nod to them, unrequited.  the darkened side street is quiet.  there is a small aluminum floodlight in a cabinet inside.  i am supposed to attach it to the top of the one of the double doors that is closest to the outlet above the cabinet.    there is a rubber-coated clamp welded to the aluminum floodlight for this purpose.  i am supposed to attach the floodlight to the top of the door, thread its cord over the door’s top hinge, through the gap between the open door and the jamb, and plug it into the outlet above the cabinet.

     i am supposed to make sure the conical flood of light it emits falls on the cardboard cut-out of a six-scoop waffle cone as tall as i am.  the light is supposed to make it easier for people to see the sign.  seeing the sign is supposed to make people want to eat ice cream, which we sell inside.  if passers by succumb to the sign, i’m supposed to scoop the flavors they choose, into the vessel they choose, and give them that vessel.  they, in turn, are supposed to give me money, in an amount corresponding to the vessel they have chosen, which i am supposed to place orderly, according to denomination, in the cash register.

     i’m not going to plug in the floodlight.  i don’t want to sell any more ice cream tonight.  not that the floodlight works that well, not when its cold like this.  i smoke a cigarette and my stomach agitates at the settling darkness.  a group of arab men passes in tight formation, tersely debating the youngest war as they go.  a sliver of the conversation lingers after them and finds my ear: “what peace…”  the way they’re dressed reminds me of the secular muslims who smoked cigars at the Café Bassam, when it was still downtown, when one could still smoke inside.  when i worked as a valet.  when i was supposed to park people’s cars.