Out on the Stoop

Dropping off the TV shelf was easy enough, but being cooped up inside had run its course. I jogged across the hall mat, slipped through the gap under the heavy front door, and came out onto the concrete stoop. Bolted right into the masonry was an old cast-iron boot scraper. The dull horizontal blade looked like an honest piece of forged steel. I climbed onto the mounting flange, grabbed the iron edge with both hands, and gave it a solid downward stomp. It didn't budge—anchor bolts were seated tight without a millimeter of play. I propped my boots on the scraper bar, leaned against the stone riser, and took in the street.