The alley lay behind those shops lining the road laid straight through this one stop sign Town, announced by a missing set of bricks in that facade of wall flanking this side street, just too narrow for any trucks needed to supply businesses still thriving along that active Main Street.
You would walk that street never knowing what might be found, today's deliveries needed to be brought in, yesterday's trash to be taken out. It was all manual so there wasn't a time someone wasn't doing something in that back alley, allowing a behind-the-scenes sneak peek while passing that cavernous recess, blocked from meeting the next street by that theater and given its name from the signage on a faded, hand-painted arrow pointing to a dark doorway at the farthest end of Stagedoor Alley.
Those years ago this gateway opened onto a gauzy dreamland of stardom, that soundtrack the frenetic footwork of hoofers and stomping of stagehand has-beens, those dime store dandies and leading ladies powdered and primped, shoes buffed and buckled. Through that haze of cigarette smoke those diffused spotlights of cool blue or hot reds held this weeks' butterfly pinned center stage, awash in the distracted chatter or buoyed by those cheers of delight that would make-or-break their conviction.
Hats were doffed and hearts broken as that doorway swung open, the chorus clattering across these cobblestones to another late night rendezvous at yet another basement dive where dance music played, louder and so much more raucous then that swell of strings carrying their voices to the back rows of the Bijoux balcony.
This rear doorway was never used today except to throw refuse out, the stench of unsold hot dogs and day-old popcorn drawing an interesting mix of vermin and hunter each evening, that droning background the buzzing of billion-year-old wings swarming until settling again on that fatty feast.
The mewling of cats echoed along those walls through to the street and would stop your heart as you passed if one let out a throaty screech. The prize pussy of the evening could come skittering out of that darkened chasm, scampering over your shoes while you stood frozen as a statue, utter fear clamping your throat into just a gurgle.
If you dared look down that alleyway, the real fright in that early evening gloom was the glare of yellow round coins floating just above the pavement, dark fur obliterating any reasoning, accusing stares held but then, in a whisper of paw pads, those shadows darted across that darkened stage, quickly disappearing into the wings.
It had began then, those games Jack played on this route home from school after practice. The ping of that basketball dribble would ricochet down the street, sharp as those rapid-fire shots at the carney tents during Summer Festival.
He would stagger his step, teasing that ball between his stride, bounce it off the wall in a give-and-go, leaping in an arc to mimic his jumpshot high off those walls.
It was the sound of this play-action that announced Jack's presence to those beasts lying in wait, but as he passed that opening the ding would drain from his dribble, the ball going hollow, any sounds sucked deep into that darkened chasm.
