The streetcar named Desire was late that day; at least for the group that sat quietly entertaining themselves on the bench across the street waiting to go home. All students of the Ethel Holiday Home of Challenges and Dreams Come True Care Center on Myers Street. As Tommy who had imaginary butterflies in his hand scratched at his shoulder and talked with Cindy who had no imaginary at all. Her deep starchy and often abruptly curt voice sounded like Frogy from our gang; his but a whisper. Her attention to what he was saying passive; but she looked interested even if he didn’t look as if it mattered. No one made mention of her voice, for in this group, they all carried plusses and minuses the size of ripe watermelons that no one needed to point out. So when the plane flew over way to close to their heads and mine, my natural instinct to look up at the sudden intrusion was met by their natural instinct to put hands over heads, drop down and to get under the bench. My only thoughts was what the hell, but to them, it was not what the hell; just what? They carried no conviction for the intrusion, just a naturally feeling of get away. Cindy was I believe the only one to look up. Flowers in the park are brown and red and yellow and golden orange this time of year. They move back and forth in the wind and to the tune hummed by swishing cars that go on down the street and never once complain when the bus stops to exhale black smoke on their shiny leaves. Almost as if their beauty is unknown to the very things that exist to acknowledge them, kind of like Cindy and Tommy.
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Sour milk & memories
His old high school auditorium hadn’t aged a bit. Gotten smaller perhaps but the place still smelled of sour milk and the stage framed by dusting gold and red and blue flagged curtains on each end seemed to be exactly the same as the first day he had walked into this makeshift auditorium/cafeteria twenty years ago. Jolted by the thunderous applause, he snapped back to here and now and felt frozen before the large group of conservative activists gathered to welcome him back. Yet he was still fixed on thoughts of audiences of days gone by. Sixth grade Christmas choir presentations the night Angela, now Doctor Minehard, wet herself. Tenth grade talent contest the night the Drifty Blues won first place thanks to his drum solo and of course his senior graduation. He could still hear Mister Harmon say, “This group of people will never be in the same place all at the same time, ever again.” Now the whistles, and cat calls and cheers of “ Go America and we won’t take this anymore,” filled the small auditorium to the rafters. It was good to be home he thought, despite knowing all of him would never be home again. That war of wars that seemed almost non existent to anything in his vision at this time was still right there. He could almost touch it. Off a plane only hours ago, now here he stood beside family and girlfriend. Like a poster on a wall, caught in an picture that he could not escape. The clock in the back of the auditorium was the same clock he had noted as he left this place thirteen months ago. It was still three minutes fast. It had been three minutes fast for twenty years, he wished it would slow down.
