It's Saturday noon at the Brooklyn Deli, downtown Spokane, a cool 78 degrees, sunny, with Bob Dylan's raspy voice singing, "I'm walking down the highway, my suitcase in my hand." I could be in Brooklyn. I'm looking up at an elevated train splashed with graffiti, rolling by as fast as the traffic, cars and a bright yellow van. City traffic outside. I'm eating Thai chicken soup hot enough to compensate for those leaves turning red and brown just outside the door.
I'm thinking about my writing (always) and today's headlines here in Spokane. Another police shooting, the third in four weeks. This time a woman tried to cut out the back window just as the police broke in on a drug raid. She got shot in the arm. She's pregnant.
On my way here, I saw a police car parked by the local synagogue, a visible officer standing guard. I don't think that happens in Brooklyn.
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