Relocating In Time

This morning, strolling somnambulantly along as usual, I suddenly woke up and took that left turn onto the shady, pedestrian path connecting Rat Alley with Easy Street. I'd been wandering up and down Rat Alley for years, gingerly sidestepping the menacing drains, tense and weary from a lifetime of constant vigilance. The path's green canopy of elm and cedar trees provided a pleasant change of scenery, and I could see Easy Street ahead like the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel; a sort of 'New Dawn' if you don't mind another cliches. And why would you? This is easy street, after all. So let's relax and kick back with our grammar and phraseology. 

The residents of Easy Street were already making the most of their day: mowing luxuriant lawns and watering flowerbeds buzzing with butterflies and honey bees; clipping curbside topiaries into an entire Noah's Ark of animal shapes; shining the gleaming chrome of vintage cars or pumping up electric bicycle tires; and some residents were simply camped out on their stoops sipping lemonade and iced tea. I imagine others were even sunbathing nude beside ornamental fishponds in their inner-sanctum backyards. It seemed like that kind of place. Everything was dappled on Easy Street. It was all very fragrant. Except for this interloper from Rat Alley, a greasy black smudge on a white picket fence. I felt as though I didn't exactly fit in here; like common courtesy demanded I ask one of Easy Street's many gardeners to hose me down should I linger any longer.

Which was when I noticed the small stucco house at number fifty-nine, its front door slightly ajar and my face reflected in a downstairs window, as if I was actually inside staring back out at myself. 'Go take a look,' someone suggested from a stoop across the way. 'It's been empty for a while.' Nobody seemed to care that I might be trespassing, so I stepped over the threshold and into the hallway, switching on the lights and closing the door behind me. 'Welcome to Easy Street,' a vaguely recognizable voice in my head whispered. 'Sit down, take a weight off and relax.'

It's afternoon now, and I've been lounging around in the backyard of number fifty-nine all day. I'm not sunbathing in the nude but I doubt anyone would mind if I did. I've put out the patio furniture, set-up a bird feeder and removed some unwanted weeds from the fishpond. I'll probably mow the lawn before dinner then take my electric bike for a spin on the riverbank trail. Could do a spot of fishing or borrow a kayak and head downstream to the old stone bridge. Or maybe I'll do all that tomorrow. I'd say I've got time to kill now, but there's no such thing as time on Easy Street. 

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