From a distance, you couldn’t tell the difference between John and Anthony. Just two boys standing on the street corner outside their school. They talked about sports, girls and fishing. They were laughing and joking while they waited for their parents. They shared each other’s phone numbers and said they’d get together. Soon their rides arrived and John got into a red Ford F150 while Anthony hopped into the backseat of a blue Prius. When they reached the stoplight, the red truck took a right turn and the blue car turned left. The boys never spoke to each other again
Category: Short Stories
Treasure hunting…
In an attempt to normalize my retirement into something a little less complicated and chaotic, I decided it was time to do some decluttering around the old homestead. So I headed off on a mission to get rid of anything no longer useable. I scrounged around in the forgotten corners of everyday living. Pulled down old boxes hidden away on closet shelves. Rummaged through various ‘junk’ drawers filled with unrecognizable items and hauled out all those totes of neglected memories that were long ago stuffed into the darkest pits of uselessness…known as the basement and attic.
At first glance, I believed them to be just more clutter that would soon be headed for the trash container. Things like plastic bins of pens with no ink, sticky note pads that no longer had any stick and dried up colored markers that had been saved away so many years ago… because who knew when they might come in handy. Most of these were disposed of quickly. This was going to be one of those ‘honey do’ weekend tasks that I would make short work of and be done with in time to watch the ball game.
But as I sifted through the various totes and containers, I realized that each memento once occupied the center stage of the drama we call ‘our lives’. Things that had been so important to us that they were worth lugging around the world as we moved from one house to another. There were so many memories of our past lives hiding away in those boxes and totes. Trophies that I am not sure which child won them, photographs of people whose faces I had forgotten. Pressed flowers from prom’s and weddings, half-written stories and poems, love letters sent and received.
I learned some valuable lesson buy reading those old poems and examining the faces of those people that were with us in our childhood. They all told me a story. Stories about who we were so many years ago and how we became the people we are today. So I returned each box to its former place of honor. Perhaps someday, after we have no need for mementos or memories, our grandchildren will go through all our boxes of treasures. Just maybe, they will get a little bit better understanding of who we were. I hope it brings a smile to their heart.
Quick to Forget
For a couple of weeks the phone calls and cards expressed sympathies. Then as suddenly as death itself, they stopped. For the next year, things reminded me of her; a favorite song on the radio or someone would cook a dish she liked. Now, I only remember her twice a year. On her birthday I tweet she would’ve been 104. I wish her a happy birthday in Heaven. As if they had birthdays in Heaven. On the anniversary of her death I post on Facebook how I miss her and quickly scroll on to the next newsfeed.
Oh look…tiny goats.
A night drive…
I lift my glass to those ‘good ole days’ when there wasn’t much to do but drive the gravel back roads, smoke cigarettes, and drink just about anything we could get our hands on. How we managed to survive it all is still a mystery to me.
My feet transfer the vibrations of tires touching gravel. The jarring shake of rut filled back roads move up my legs and out my arms then back into the steering wheel. I am in sync with my knobby tired, metal and glass steed as we speed through the perfect night.
The sky stretches out before me. A jeweled black velvet horizon surrounding a full moon that hangs brilliant; splashing a ghostly light into the countryside. The wood floors of ancient bridges rumble as I pass and the creeks and rivers catch the moon’s sparkle as they flow quickly beneath me and on into the darkness. The road comes alive for me while the rest of the world dreams. I move past cemeteries, where souls are frozen in place, longing for the freedom to ride along to oblivion. An old red barn built when the country was younger melts into its destiny. Brown brick grain silos stand godlike against the attack of time.
I roll down my window and let the cool night air blast away the anger, hate and dissolution that the sunlight brings. It mixes with the oven-like heater and I begin a dance with the night as the radio hums a low harmony and the soft glow from the dash lights mingle with it to create a perfect synchronicity.
These country back roads crisscross my path and stretch out into infinity. I travel through a landscape that is so satisfying and peaceful and I know that I am in control. I can choose my own destiny. Sometimes I think that if I just close my eyes and take my hands from the wheel, this could be…the end.
What all the boys thought about…
I lift my glass to those ‘good ole days’ when there wasn’t much to do but drive the gravel backroads, smoke cigarettes, and drink just about anything we could get our hands on. How we managed to survive it all is still a mystery to me.
When I was a kid hanging around the only grocery store in town, drinking Yoo-hoo and stuffing my cheeks with Bazooka Joe gum a surprising change started taking place. All of a sudden, it seemed like everywhere I looked there were girls. I mean, sure they were there before but they were just annoying little brats whose sole purpose in life was to cause trouble. I wasn’t sure what happened and honestly I didn’t care. All I knew was those little brats had been transformed into females. I can tell you that the only good thing about a hot ass, dust filled summer in the arm pit of the universe called Wakenda, Missouri was…the hotter the sun, the fewer clothes those females wore. A pair of short blue jean cutoffs and a halter top could start the blood pumping and I’m going to say, that to a 13 year old’s imagination, there were times when maybe that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say that all we could think about all day and night was sex. I mean, sometimes we had to eat. But it did seem that we had an awful lot of different names for something none of us knew a hell of a lot about. Boff, boink, bump, diddle, dip your wick, doing it, doing the nasty, getting down and dirty, getting laid, got lucky, going all the way, rounding the bases, home run, touchdown, hide the sausage and squeaky-squeaky. Man, we became experts on the subject. But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re stuck in a town with the population about the size of a football team.
Jerry Brotherton 