She saw an ugly red screak that oozed and glistened in the orange light.

The door gave another screak.

Her eyes sharpened a hawk glare fit to pin a mouse from a thousand feet; and if she'd had slightly less self-control, her next two words would have come out as a birdy screak of cold delight.

The screak of East Village life and the wicka-wacka of gentrification and complaint play hearty along the strip of small, quirky shops between Second Avenue and Avenue A on East Ninth Street.