It was being whispered around that Lebron James was in Manchester, NH, incognito. Why he made his way to a city with no professional basketball I wasn’t sure. We met up on Elm Street, outside the Black Brimmer. We both knew where we were meeting and when, the details prearranged elsewhere. On the curb a valet weaved his way through a number of smoking college students. They were enthralled in the story of a girl they’d passed around. None of the flat brimmed polo hat bros gave heed to the 6’8” athlete in two pieces of a three-piece plaid cashmere suit. On another night in another city we might have been looking for the red carpet, the next party, the third piece of his suit. In ManchVegas we were on our way to a nightcap.
The first thing we saw turning up Lowell Street was a tow truck dragging away some unsuspecting drunk’s Cutlass Ciera. It was too early for the college kids to be at The Red Arrow Diner. The car belonged to a local. How unlikely a local would be unaware of the tow zone, Lebron stated so matter-of-factly, as though this were his usual Thursday-night-spot.