It’s fall in Port City, possibly named after the deluge of leaf debris. Zamboni Boy and his mom watch the slow mating dance of leaf collection vehicles. Humans in orange vests and leaf blowers scurry about as if they are tending some great insect queen. The street sweeper rumbles by, brushes gobbling wet leaves into its maw. Zamboni Boy’s mouth drops open. He stares, drawn in by the majesty, the glory a thousand fantasies born.
He points. “Look Mom, it’s a Street Zamboni….”
“Alright kid, let’s get you to piano lessons.” She drags him down the street, still staring after the machines.
“Street Zamboni…”