Taste, Part Two

As his tongue hit the wet pavement, Mr. Lepic felt the sharp prick of a pine needle. The Christmas tree that had shed on that spot belonged to Lamar and Sheila Warren, a married couple who lived in an old brownstone on the block. Mr. Lepic knew Mr. Warren, but was unaware of this fact. Mr. Warren was the owner of a deli/grocery on AC Powell Blvd., and everyday Mr. Lepic walked by and nodded hello through the window. Mr. Warren appreciated the gesture, always thought of Mr. Lepic as "one of the good ones" on a block that was being overrun by entitled pricks from downtown. Mr. Warren had reason to worry - a developer had already come by to take a look at his home, claiming that the lease didn't make clear whether the property could legally be owned by an individual and not the city. He thought about this when he dragged the tree from his living room to the sidewalk, scraping off the twig that stabbed Mr. Lepic's tongue.

Mr. Lepic tasted acid from yesterday's rain, grease dripped from a slice of pizza, rubber from the bottom of new sneakers, hair left by the new Bijon terrier adopted up the block...

Mr. Lepic stood up and brushed off his pants. There is too much here, he thought. Too much to taste. From now on, I'll stick to wine.

(You know how some people are "completists" for certain bands or artists or writers? That's who this is for. If you're just dying to read everything ever written by Oscar McPhee, first of all, seek help, second of all, sorry this piece was not...dare I say...OSCAR WORTHY! Next one will be better. I hope.)