Going Back To Aleppo

The last time the Syrian opposition controlled Aleppo, I was holed up in a backup apartment I kept on the fringes of Yonkers: Monarch at Ridge Hill. You can look it up. It's a quasi-upscale development (or it counted as one at the time) and it's out of place, as is the halfway decent shopping center built beside it. Suffice to say Yonkers isn't a place you want to live, but if, for whatever reason, you have to live in Yonkers for a spell, Ridge Hill's tolerable. It was 2015, and I was engrosse

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9 thoughts on “Going Back To Aleppo

  1. Backup apartment? Educate this naive Midwesterner. Also, gtfo of the south and come to the mecca that is Ann arbor, so many smarties here, we’ve got some nice shit too!

    1. You always need a backup. Remember the vignette from “Ghost Town”?…

      I remember when it all fell apart here all those years ago, but I don’t remember why we were arguing. We had plenty of money and no cares.

      When the shouting was over, she sat smoking in the hallway next to the front door with her arms folded around her knees, her left hand clutching a pack of Marlboro Reds that matched her right shoulder, where the deep red heart in a Frank-N-Furter “BOSS” tattoo was painted on the palest canvas. I leaned against the opposite wall. She was three reds in when the knock finally came.

      He looked at me, then at her, then back at me. “Go on,” she said, waving her cigarette hand dismissively at us. We walked past the living room, where a shattered plasma TV and a broken vase testified to irreconcilability. “She broke the vase,” I offered.

      I waited outside the bedroom while he extricated the safe from the closet, where it was bolted to the floor. We hauled it down the stairs, past the living room, through the hall and out the door to the black Denali SUV waiting outside. When I looked back, she’d already shut the door. We drove in silence to the apartment I kept on the other side of town. Not long after, I was half a world away in Manhattan.

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