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King of Roses Death emerges from the front door of the Grim Eye Clinic, cheerful and ebullient, wearing tight pants and a tank top, his arms and shoulders a swirling mural of dragons, ferns, a beautiful naked lady, a procession of trolls, flowers, and spiderwebs. He carries the skeleton of an umbrella and hums a phrase of Lola’s ditty from Cavalleria. Da dé da dé da da. He crosses the street without looking in either direction and sits on a bench waiting for the bus, not knowing which bus he is waiting for. No matter. He will recognize it when he sees it. Da dé da dé da da. He spins the ribs of the umbrella above his head like a propeller, creating a cooling breeze on his face while others at the bus stop edge away. A pale middle-aged woman in an ugly wig thinks he must be crazy. Just my luck, she says to herself when he rises and follows her onto her bus, #6 East Broadway via Main, still humming the same phrase over and over, faster and faster, and he will hum it 48 all the way to her stop, where he will get off first and help her down, da dé da dé da da, waiting for recognition to snap her eyelids up like window blinds. 49 ...

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