A dirty teal Chevy Silverado, with some serious all-terrain tires, pulled up next to the sidewalk.
With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout.
Dusk settled heavily around us as we stood outside on the sidewalk and said our good-byes.
Black Suit grabbed my wrist and wrenched my arm down to the sidewalk.
I hung a left outside the door and walked down the sidewalk, not even trying to hide the open can.
Other pedestrians on the sidewalk were oblivious to the lady having trouble in the middle of the road.
She was alone on the sidewalk, which was weird for California.
I turned around and followed his gaze down the sidewalk.
I stood on the sidewalk, a box of beer under one arm, an open can suspended by the other, and listened.
We rounded the corner and limped down the cracked sidewalk.
