It was 
eleven o'clock 
in the evening 
at her place when 
the drunks at the Italian-
American club down 
the street began to sing 
very loudly on the corner. 
It wasn't the 
best neighborhood, 
you really shouldn't 
have too many expectations 
with the poor, and she 
said--shit, I'm calling the police 
to report them for 
disturbing the peace. 
I sat at her kitchen table 
with a 16 oz. can 
of beer. Don't bother, I said, 
let the drunks have 
their fun. They'll knock it off 
after a while. Besides, somebody 
else will call the cops. 
Let them do 
the dirty work. No, she said, 
as she cinched up the sash 
of her frayed robe, I'm calling them 
right this minute. She went over 
to the phone and called. 
It took the cops 
over an hour to get there. 
Noise probably 
wasn't a high priority 
on their list, not in that neighbor-
hood. I went to the window, 
saw them out there under 
the darkness. All the 
drunken Italian-
Americans had 
gone home for the 
night. Let them sleep it off, 
I thought, and then I followed 
them to bed. In the morning 
when I went out to my 
car, there was 
a ticket shoved under 
the wiper. Sun-
shine came down, 
intoxicated with 
the new day.
Kurt Nimmo