Bye-Bye

Just an idea that has been rolling around in my head for a while. We'll see if it goes anywhere.

I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.

Those days my alarm clock would buzz before the sun was awake. It was an automatic routine, more muscle than mind. I would take a quiet shower, only soap, no shampoo, and shake my hair dry. My belt would still be threaded though my jeans, and some t-shirt on my floor would usually pass the sniff test. I would shrugged on my navy letter jacket and click a mix tape into my Walkman. In one smooth motion, I would hop on my bike, set my headphones over my ears, and ride. If you had seen it, you probably would have been impressed.

That morning, not a soul was out on the streets. I remembered the past summer, when customers would stand waiting for the paper, for more news on the Scandal. My legs worked against the February chill, pumping the pedals round and round on my paper route. It took an hour altogether, longer if Mr. Johnson's son, Ralphie, didn't finish all the folding on time. As I rode, the sun began to paint the sky orangey-pink, but added no warmth. I turned up the volume on my Walkman, letting Springsteen vibrate my brain.

"Any bad news on the doorstep today, son?" My father grinned as I walked into the kitchen. I pointed to the headphones wrapped around my head. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the Wheaties and a bowl.

Joy (Part 3 of 3)

Harold shook his head and retreated to the driver’s seat. Turning out of the parking lot, he imagined Eloise standing at her stove, spatula poised, waiting for her morning peaches. Excuses for the time began forming in Harold’s head. He drove to the closest grocery store and quickly threw two peaches in a paper bag. Three minutes carried him back to his neighborhood. He pulled carefully back into the parking spot, and after a quick glance around, he bounded out of the car.

Harold closed his wooden front door behind him. Eloise had demanded air conditioning a few years ago, and he was paying too much to let it out into the Floridian heat. He reached down to pet Lemon, then walked into the kitchen, peach bag in hand, preparing for a verbal assault.

“And what took you so long?” Eloise glanced over the edge of her coffee cup. She had just finished the first crossword puzzle from the newspaper, and was about the start the second.

Harold settled into a chair at the table. “Oh, traffic was terrible, and uh, the, um, peach shipment for today was late, I had to, to wait for them to get stocked.” At that moment, a siren started ringing, getting louder and louder. Eloise walked to the front window and drew back the shade.

“Look at that commotion,” she pointed across the street where two police cars had parked outside their neighbor’s house. An old woman stood frantically pointing and yelling at the officers. “Seems like something happened to that fancy car of hers.”

Harold took a bite of his peach and let the juice dribble down his chin, “Yes, dear.”

Joy (Part 2 of 3)

Harold’s heart leapt in his chest as he shifted into reverse and slowly backed out onto the street. He was careful to stay at a slow, quiet speed until he passed through the gates of his neighborhood. Winding down the window, he adjusted the side mirror.

“Did I just steal a car?” Harold whispered. “I just stole a car.”

A string of Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror clacked loudly with the movement of the car. Harold tossed them into the seat beside him. He snaked through residential streets, finally starting to gain speed. As he merged onto the highway, he pressed his foot deeply into the gas pedal. Cool wind rushed in through the window. Harold’s body started to relax into the seat and he passed into the far left lane, poking at buttons on the radio. The stolen Chevelle whizzed past lines of other cars. He began to chuckle and the skin at the edges of his eyes softened and rippled.

Five exits passed before Harold got off the highway. He pulled into a parking lot and chose a space next to the small building in the middle of the lot. Bells jangled against the door as he entered. One customer stood at the counter. Harold looked around at the blank keys, key chains, and locks while he waited.

“Thisisabrasskey,youbuythreethefourthisfree. Wouldyouliketobuyakeychaintoday?” The man behind the counter barked out this much-repeated line in the rough voice of a native New Yorker. The transaction was finished and Harold stepped up to the counter.

“Harold,” the man exclaimed, pushing large rimmed glasses onto his nose. Harold tossed the dolphin keychain on the counter.

“Walter, I, um, borrowed a car.”

“You old dog,” Walter’s eyes grew round. “Want to copy those?” he asked.

“No.” Harold shook his head at the suggestion.

Walter called to the back of the store, “Hey, Bobby, I’m gonna take a break. You do front for a few.” The two walked out the door.

“Classic Chevelle, 1965.”

Walter whistled as he approached the car. “You remember the 60s, Slim?”

Harold nodded.

“Where’d you get ‘er?”

“My new neighbor. I just went over to look, and before I knew it I was on the highway.”

“Some old lady’s gonna be looking for you,” Walter laughed and clapped his friend on the back. “Can I drive?”

“She’s all yours, Walt,” Harold said, handing him the keys. The pair climbed into the car and Harold tossed the beads onto the floor. Walter eased the car back onto the highway. As the Chevelle carried them farther and farther away from town, the road became clearer and Walter pushed the speed. They laughed and talked a little about the good old days, but eventually they just listened to the sound of tires on pavement. The curves and straightaways of the highway smoothed both men’s tired faces. Car, driver, and passenger became a single unit, racing toward open sky.

Harold checked the clock. “Walt, it’s almost 9. I have to get back, Eloise is going to wonder.”

“Ah, the old ball and chain. And, ya never know. Maybe the cops’ll be waiting for ya too, you old dog.” Walter chuckled and pulled off the highway. The men climbed out and admired the Chevelle’s smooth body and angled front grill. “That’s one heck of a car,” Walter said, patting the hood of the car before walking back into the key shop. “Thanks for the ride, Harold. And, uh, you know my number if they give you one phone call from prison.”

Joy (Part 1)

Milk sloshed out of the turquoise cereal bowls as Eloise’s fists hit the table. “Forty-eight years, Harold. Forty-eight years and you still forget my morning peaches.” Eloise stepped back over to the eggs sputtering in a pan on the stove. She gazed at her husband, spatula in hand, awaiting a response. Harold’s bones groaned as he rose from the kitchen table and swallowed a final sip of coffee. Knee creaking, he walked toward the front door. His soft brown moccasin had a piece of loose stitching which dragged behind his foot, to the great pleasure of his small cat, Lemon. Harold stretched open the door to the morning light.

“Forty-eight years,” he mumbled. Harold slowly lowered his thin frame onto a yellow porch chair. The peaches could wait five minutes. He stretched out his long legs, opening a napping place for Lemon. As he smoothed her light orange fur, he glanced at his hands. Between the knuckles of his left hand a veiny blue “Y” protruded to the top of thin, transparent skin. His fingertips were rough and calloused; the nail on his right pinky had never grown back. Harold’s gaze shifted out to the street as he settled deeper into the chair. He was secretly thankful for a wife too completely caught up in her own business to peek through the front window. Lemon awoke, stretched, and jumped off his lap, responding to the invitation of the warming concrete.

The Florida retirement community Harold and Eloise called home boasted perfectly manicured grass, shimmering swimming pools, and fully furnished villa-style homes. It also had a fairly fast turn over rate; the small home across the street was especially notorious for hosting people close to the grave. The newest resident at 21 Molasses Lane was just arriving home. Harold leaned forward as a classic red Chevelle, beautifully maintained, slowly curved under the carport. An old woman with bluish silver hair clamored out of the front seat, dragging a cloth shopping bag behind her. Carefully watching his new neighbor shuffle through her front door, Harold rose from his chair. He checked to be sure Lemon’s cat door was unlocked and, scanning the street, crossed to the Chevelle.

Ducking under an angled carport support beam, Harold circled to the front of the car. He fingered the broad white stripes on the hood then casually glanced in the driver’s side window. Peering across the street at the yellow façade of his villa, he pressed his thumb into the button on the handle. It gave and the door swung open. With a deep breath, Harold climbed inside. The seat had been pushed up far towards the steering wheel. Harold grabbed the bar under the seat and slid back until his knees unbent. He gasped. The woman’s dolphin keychain still dangled from the ignition. Swallowing, Harold gripped the key and the car purred to life.

Post: The First

I have done it.

I am now a blogger.

As I move toward the end of my third year of college, I am becoming more and more aware of the fact that my time at Calvin is short. The writing community I enjoy right now is unlike any other. The opportunities are amazing, my peers offer so much brilliance, and my mentors are more than incredible.

In one short year, my final writing class will be complete, I will be holding a diploma, and no one will ever assign me the task of writing again. I created this blog to get in the habit of writing on my own, to gain confidence in my work, and to keep writing even when no one is asking for my stories.