Baggadow Street

Baggadow Street was a tall man’s game.

“Only the brightest and the heightest,” as Mell would say.

But “heightist,” (that’s with an –ist, you see) was more the thing. All the shops had been elevated off the street. You need a ladder or something to get up to ‘em now. It was a direct appeal to the influx of Lankees that the city was experiencing.

“Come one, come all, it’s the mall for the tall,” Mell would say. I got no problem with Lankees comin’ over here, really. Nation of immigrants and all. But they scare the plums out of me. People weren’t made to be that tall. It’s unnatural. And there’s no talking to ‘em. I’m not saying they’re dumb. It’s a matter of convenience. When another person’s ears are 20 feet above your mouth, it’s just not worth the time. With every how do ya do, I’m reaching for a lozenge—such is the screaming I’m doing.

But back to Baggadow. Mell sent me down there to get him the bread he likes. I like it too. Good bread. But now Jake’s Bakes was on stilts and the only access for non-Lanks was a rope dangling down from the entrance. You believe that? A single rope like you see in movies about gym class. Jake didn’t even put knots in the thing.

I didn’t understand how elevating the stores made sense anyway. Lanks were still too tall to get in them. Guess it’s for the window shopping. So they can peek in and what not. Meanwhile I’m down here browsing by periscope, so go figure that one out.

“Settle the score and I’ll show you two more,” Mell would say.  


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