Rainy Alley
Alleys are—or should be—full of drama and adventure. Alleys are those seldom-traveled passages where people put things and do things you’re not supposed to see. They’re quiet and still on the surface, but who knows what takes place in the shadows of alleyways. How disappointing it would be if an alley was nothing more than a city lane connecting two dull, regular, humdrum streets.
Alleys are where you find tough guys in wife-beater t-shirts, smoking cigarettes and shooting craps. They’re where Irish and Italian thugs with blackjacks hang out and plot to hijack semi-trailers filled with appliances and power tools. Alleys are where innocent girls get kidnapped by slavers and sold to wicked sultans, where healthy young men are coshed and wake up to find themselves serving as deck-hands on ships bound for the Orient. Private-eyes with loaded gats under their trenchcoats follow fedora-wearing suspects into alleys, and catch them meeting with dope dealers. Drugs are sold in alleys, and used there, and every shadow and moonlit puddle looks like spilled blood.
In many urban areas, efforts are being made to make alleys more safe. Better lighting, improved maintenance, routine fire inspections and a consistent police presence—they all serve to make alleys almost respectable. It’s probably a good thing. Still, I’m inclined to believe that you don’t think an alley is safe—then just stay out.
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