Heaven on Earth: Ancient Capital 1787
More historical fiction of Philadelphia
They met by chance, very late, past midnight, at the door of The Widow’s Tavern. The first was making an egress, the door swinging behind him, wreathed in a cloud of flatulence and tobacco, drawing his coat together with a bare hand, already spastic in the cold, while the second, ambulant but in that same posture, collided with him, a chancy scenario given the nature of South Street and its immediate vicinity, but nevertheless, having recognized each other from a somewhat vague but longstanding acquaintance, they settled on walking home together, their respective paths converging for a time, both of them down at the heel, in quite a literal sense, the nails of their boots ringing across the once loose paving stones, now bonded tight with ice—the night accomplishing what local masons could not—bonded with a grubby rime of ice, which only vaguely reflected the moon, despite its fullness and its high seat in the sky.
“If you had been at the tavern, I would have gotten you a drink—I would have liked to, anyway. You could use some cheering up.” Their shadows, advancing before them, lay crisp against the soiled ground. “Not at all. In fact, my prospects have never been better. I couldn’t hope for better prospects, not even in Heaven.” They passed by an open field where a camp for the indigent had lately been erected. Sparks and the glow from a fire, an indulgence in better weather, rose in the middle distance. “And how is that? How do you live such an exalted state?” The rag-choked mouth of a hovel opened up beside them. A child or a small monkey cried out from within; the cry was smothered. A few blocks later, the pair concluded their exchange. “Well, speaking for myself only, the conditions on Earth seem much the same as they will be in the sweet hereafter. As scripture tells us, the saved neither eat nor drink, such is their rejoicing.” With that, they departed.
