fifty

The streets were different now in 1972 than they were in 1957. The brick buildings had grown taller, and now had flags and ribbons draped from them. The street was cobblestone, but now asphalt and spray paint and bodies writhing in pain and bootstomps in rhythm. The storefronts that had TV-sized radios and oven-sized TVs were but shattered panes and torn clothing. He couldn't see very far anywhere he looked, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-back-to-front, at least everyone was pushing in the same direction, like the current of the stream that carries the minnow. His tightly gripped red book and red scarf and white t-shirt turned red were held to his chest, his heart beating and pounding and aching, all in time with everyone else's.