One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) by J Gordon Smith Page B

angle. Keeping in character he spun his hat around and had his tongue out while he took a few more candid pictures.
    “Now you’re being goofy!”
    He laughed as the phone continued making fake camera shutter sounds.
    Mrs. Radish, a middle-aged neighbor in the building, came out and stood by the building entry door, “Don’t you two look like the perfect couple!” she waved her hand in a white lace glove for us to come nearer, “Here let me take your picture.”
    Garin said, “Aim like so and press on the screen like this.”
    “What a snazzy little phone,” she said.
    We stood by the tree and black wrought iron fence next to the building. I never thought about it before but the building might be old enough. The years had seen some modernization that hid the old Victorian features well. We marveled at the pictures and said goodbye to Mrs. Radish. The drive downtown slowed. The whole town liked to come to these events. We finally found a parking structure but went around and around until we squeezed into the last remaining spaces on the parking structure roof. People everywhere displayed interesting and fun outfits. Kids and adults rode modern mountain bikes who didn’t fancy parking a car as well as some of those big-wheel bikes ridden by guys with handle bar mustaches. I saw a lot of men with hats.
    “Why do you think no one wears a hat anymore?” I asked Garin, watching an elderly couple making their way over the park lawn.
    “Fashion industry. More money in selling hair care products and hair cuts and such than ever in the haberdashery business. Now you have a whole pharmaceutical anti-baldness industry trying to grow –” I nudged him for that. “– while hats keep trying to return but never quite get into mainstream.”
    “I like your hair products conspiracy.” I said.
    He said, “I’m hoping the frilly powdered wigs and coats festooned with a hundred buttons come back. That will be cool.”
    “I’m not sure I’d like my men in tights and knickers,” I laughed. Garin looked down at his pants and socks not far from the seventeen hundreds style and laughed too.
    We wandered aimlessly doing a little window shopping. Clever little trinkets are always on display in the stores here. I sipped a lemonade I purchased from the candy store. We walked back to the town square when it appeared time for the parade kick off. Garin and I came along with the other people compressing together. We stood under the moody oak tree hunched over the end of the town square. The tree sprouted several hundred years in the middle of grasslands before the founding of the town. I hadn’t yet heard the rumors that some of its branches hung convicts during the wild frontier that the Victorian times hearkened back to – explaining why we had a little more space to stand under the tree than other areas of the square.
    The Mayor engulfed the small podium on the temporary stage at the opposite end of the square. A large man in both height and girth and comically cliché for his occupation. He carried his weight well however. He worked out incessantly at the gym in a deathly struggle against the occupational hazard of lunches and dinners with the important and well funded. He pulled out a pocket watch the size of a dinner plate from his widely striped vest and held it up, “It’s Time!” The crowd clapped and cheered.
    “Welcome everyone to our 115th year of the Victorian Festival!” He said in his giant showman voice holding the glittery watch in one hand and waved his tall stovepipe hat in the other.
    The crowd cheered.
    He balanced his hat on his head, “The town continues to grow rapidly with industry and jobs – in spite of the global recession. We like to think our town government is partly to blame for the success we’ve been having.” Like a good comedian, he paused and scanned the audience to see if any caught the joke. He raised an eyebrow. Nothing.
    “Before I forget, my building department asked me to remind