repost, deleted from the dressingroom;
Post WWI. The early 1920's;
On the subject of bootlegging and speakeasies?
Alfred swipes the derby hat off his muss of blond hair, presses the cave of it over the promise of his heart, and crosses the border to a land not his own. One step forward, and it's all Canada's, his brother's land, the brother he just recently decided not to hate ( for not moving in with him. Honestly, what was Matty gonna do with all that space in the first place? ). Two steps back, and it's all America's, his land, his home, the greatest billion acre home on earth ( a passing thought: wonder if Matty's still angry about that whole Alaska deal? ) -- and boy, he doesn't know if he likes the feel of that.
But he's never been one to linger too long on symbolism and the like. Consciously, anyway. He walks the fine line between them, him and Matthew, like a tight rope wire - but sooner or later, he's gotta get off.
Dear Niagara Falls roars like a madwoman around him, urging him in and on, and Alfred finally eases himself to the Honeymoon Bridge, that silly uneasy Giraffe-legs piece of marvel posing as a sound structure. Then comes Ontario, what an unAmerican name, and then there are unfamiliar roads accounting for unfamiliar miles, and finally, finally, finally, he's walking up the steps to Matthew's house.
Knock, knock, knock. How reminiscent of a new Jazz beat.
It occurs to him then, that he's not necessarily here for business. Did this count as a visit? He hasn't visited Matthew, congenially, it feels, for what? A century now?
Huh. At least he was out of the house. ( War has the nasty habit of changing absolutely everything, but ain't that in his spirit? ( He wasn't much sure of anything lately ) (Moving on, moving on --))
"Matty! Matty-boy, are ya home?" Alfred hollers, top of his lungs.