The other day I was walking Bandit. We were traipsing the common and I was looking up at the historic homes trying to imagine which one Brunonia Barry had contemplated as her aunt's house in The Lace Reader. (An interesting book for its depiction of Salem.) I came affront the Hawthorne Hotel as a middle-aged husband and wife came out of the lobby to enter the black Lincoln of which a chauffeur was holding open the door. They were dressed well: she in a loose fitting long leather coat; he in a black trench. A red scarf adorned his neck highlighting his aged yet chiseled face and speckled gray hair.
As I proceeded toward the waterfront I let my mind wander. Who were they? What were they? Happy? Sad? Why were they in Salem? Just tourists? If so, why on a Tuesday afternoon?
I let the creative wheels go. (I think best when walking or driving.) I imagined he a Hollywood executive on-location. After all the North Shore is the new Hollywood. She the well-kept wife. They were in town on business. Perhaps scouting Salem and the museum for his latest picture.
Then snapping me out of creative fodder, Bandit yanked on his leash and dropped the biggest turd you could imagine. Luckily I had a bag. As I bent down to pick it up, I saw the woman and her husband now driving by in the back of the black Lincoln. She smiled and pointed to Bandit as he was now pressing forward to continue his walk. Could Bandit be the new Hollywood super hero?