The Sticky Shriek

A fat roll of brown industrial packing tape was wedged against an overturned milk crate, its loose end fluttering in the breeze like an open invitation. Walking past primed noise is strictly for chumps. Clamping my green cup tightly under one elbow, I hooked both hands onto the sticky tab and hauled backward with zero hesitation. The tape peeled off the spool with a vicious, ear-splitting screech that sliced clean through the noon air, reverberating down the brick canyon like a dying siren. The sheer racket startled a line cook who kicked the back door open to investigate, while I stood there in the grit, completely amused by the chaos.