"What in TARNATION are you doing?!" Laney stood directly above Lucy's face, looking down on her with a bright ceiling can light behind her deep brown hair.
Lucy didn't say a word. Pressing her finger to her lips, she silently shushed her older sister, then pointed northwest through several Jeeps.
Laney quietly stepped over her sister, closed the Mercedes door, and walked away.
Lucy lay on her back two more moments and then flipped over, belly crawling her way behind a flowing curtain. She stood, slowly, clutching the translucent fabric with her sweating palms. If it were a wall, she would sink into it. Closing her eyes in her aloneness, she breathed a soft sigh of relief. Looking back over her shoulder through the thin crack of car light, she spotted Sneller making his way toward the other side of the show room, no doubt to look up some spokesmodel's tail-light.
Lucy kept her eyes peeled on the crack, just to be sure, as she began to walk further down the corridor toward the bathrooms.
She never saw the sweating Latino-ish man hauling a large trash can into her path until she actually landed in it, face down, staring at a pile of what could only be described as twice chewed corn dogs inches from her nose.
Shuddering, she pulled herself from the barrel, walking quickly away from the man who, at first shocked into silence, then began to laugh so hard it rattled the roll of replacement trash bags hooked onto a holster on his wide girth belt.
Lucy wiped off the back of her head and rounded a corner toward the restrooms, finding refuge on an abandoned bench beside an exit door. From here she could see the entire car show, with two gray curtains pulled half open in front of her and tied like some gigantic stage play scenery. It was a stage, after all, and she was the only actor who didn't know her lines. The rest recited them exactly the same way, year after year after year.
Cowboy walked in the exit behind her, and his shadow rested on the back of her head. He stopped, letting her beautiful profile rest easy in his shade, as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.
Suddenly he realized where he had seen her before.
It was a bus. A bus in California.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Friday, August 8, 2014
Chapter 8
Car shows shine.
Shine like mad.
Lucy saw her shoes in every hubcap, her eyes in every window, her dress in every door.
Show floors spun round in slow carousel circles, flaunting perfectly proportioned, heavily made up, carefully corseted women with teeth almost as white as that Cadillac over by the exit.
Ceilings almost forty feet high echoed and swayed, every gray fabric curtain gently swaying in the musical hum of a million air conditioner vents on high speed. Carpet cushioned sound, even car door slams, and gently accompanied Lucy Ballman and her family around about space age style vehicles in every metallic color under the General Motors sun.
Oh, and the smell... that smell, that new car smell was even better than the smell of turkey and legs and funnel cakes outside the door.
Where did it come from? It was as if these vehicles understood how new things smell like flowers understand color.
It was one of Lucy's favorite things. She relished it. Her own cherished car, 12 years old, still looked new, but the smell had long ago faded.
Smells do that, you know. They fade and then they build up again as shadows of themselves: stinkier, less new, shadows.
Here, in this building full of cars, you could shrug off the consequential and throw yourself into the soft shag rug of a brand new upgrade, with its price, and its shine, and its smile, and its smell.
She breathed in happily, eyes closing, hands resting easily.
Elvis was test driving a car with his mother in the backseat and father checking out the glove box. Lucy's parents, with a grandchild around their shoulders, ducked in and out of pickup trucks like they were closets full of toys, rubbing tread on tires with reaching hands, adjusting rear view mirrors to check reflection. Laney looked for nose hairs and dirty teeth before answering a business phone call about nutritional supplements.
Lucy temporarily had no one to entertain, no one to talk to, no one to walk but herself, and it made her happy. She wandered alone around and through rows of cars, the Barbies smiling down at her from their spinning platforms, and the shiny men in suits flashing fake teeth and buttoned up jackets as they put their hands on their belts and tried to sidle over to her. She left them in her happy wake.
Ahh.
She breathed.
And then she saw him.
SNELLER.
That creep from the newspaper, the sexter, the inappropriate coworker, the stalker, the balding mid-twenties shorty, the half-drunk sportswriter.
He adored her.
She had a restraining order.
Lucy hit the deck, crawling underneath a neon red fender on her hands and knees. She couldn't breathe anymore. Stealthily she slid across an empty back alley between two competing car companies. Finding a plain jane Mercedes with low-key silver doors, she quietly opened the back door on the passenger side and slid in.
Ssssshhhh. She breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes, leaning into the luscious leather she'd always before been afraid to touch: so perfect, so precious. What if she messed it up?
She scooted to the edge of the seat, trying not to press her butt cheeks into the leather, grateful for the dark tinted windows. Leaning hard into the door, she ducked her head down near the door pocket and breathed into her knees for a while. Everything. Everything. The door held her up, held her in. Held him out.
She stayed there, breathing, loving the dark quiet alone, loving the smell, loving her hiding place. She leaned into it, and smiled.
And then, BANG.
Someone opened the door, and Lucy toppled out, backside first, landing upside down in a giant pink thud.
Shine like mad.
Lucy saw her shoes in every hubcap, her eyes in every window, her dress in every door.
Show floors spun round in slow carousel circles, flaunting perfectly proportioned, heavily made up, carefully corseted women with teeth almost as white as that Cadillac over by the exit.
Ceilings almost forty feet high echoed and swayed, every gray fabric curtain gently swaying in the musical hum of a million air conditioner vents on high speed. Carpet cushioned sound, even car door slams, and gently accompanied Lucy Ballman and her family around about space age style vehicles in every metallic color under the General Motors sun.
Oh, and the smell... that smell, that new car smell was even better than the smell of turkey and legs and funnel cakes outside the door.
Where did it come from? It was as if these vehicles understood how new things smell like flowers understand color.
It was one of Lucy's favorite things. She relished it. Her own cherished car, 12 years old, still looked new, but the smell had long ago faded.
Smells do that, you know. They fade and then they build up again as shadows of themselves: stinkier, less new, shadows.
Here, in this building full of cars, you could shrug off the consequential and throw yourself into the soft shag rug of a brand new upgrade, with its price, and its shine, and its smile, and its smell.
She breathed in happily, eyes closing, hands resting easily.
Elvis was test driving a car with his mother in the backseat and father checking out the glove box. Lucy's parents, with a grandchild around their shoulders, ducked in and out of pickup trucks like they were closets full of toys, rubbing tread on tires with reaching hands, adjusting rear view mirrors to check reflection. Laney looked for nose hairs and dirty teeth before answering a business phone call about nutritional supplements.
Lucy temporarily had no one to entertain, no one to talk to, no one to walk but herself, and it made her happy. She wandered alone around and through rows of cars, the Barbies smiling down at her from their spinning platforms, and the shiny men in suits flashing fake teeth and buttoned up jackets as they put their hands on their belts and tried to sidle over to her. She left them in her happy wake.
Ahh.
She breathed.
And then she saw him.
SNELLER.
That creep from the newspaper, the sexter, the inappropriate coworker, the stalker, the balding mid-twenties shorty, the half-drunk sportswriter.
He adored her.
She had a restraining order.
Lucy hit the deck, crawling underneath a neon red fender on her hands and knees. She couldn't breathe anymore. Stealthily she slid across an empty back alley between two competing car companies. Finding a plain jane Mercedes with low-key silver doors, she quietly opened the back door on the passenger side and slid in.
Ssssshhhh. She breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes, leaning into the luscious leather she'd always before been afraid to touch: so perfect, so precious. What if she messed it up?
She scooted to the edge of the seat, trying not to press her butt cheeks into the leather, grateful for the dark tinted windows. Leaning hard into the door, she ducked her head down near the door pocket and breathed into her knees for a while. Everything. Everything. The door held her up, held her in. Held him out.
She stayed there, breathing, loving the dark quiet alone, loving the smell, loving her hiding place. She leaned into it, and smiled.
And then, BANG.
Someone opened the door, and Lucy toppled out, backside first, landing upside down in a giant pink thud.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Chapter 7
Mere nanoseconds before Lucy met her wooden match, a head poked out of a window.
"Yoohoo, you," it said.
His nearly bald head, with an ear level crown of dark black hairy effort, leaned from an RV window. Dressed in a slick, slick, city slicker suit, he spoke to the boy with the guitar with a slick tone, sliding effortlessly sideways towards the stairs.
Guitar boy glanced up at slicker suit just when Lucy blacked out: both surprised, both faced with blackness.
He never saw her hit.
His manager hit him hard with another truth, this one in monotone.
"He's not coming, you know," the head said.
Guitar boy got up, slow, as if unfolding years of stiffness from his joints, and then lithely lifted the guitar into a nondescript black case, closing the lid on years of dreams.
One had come true, at least, but was it even his? Or was it an anemone? A windflower? Something that danced in the wind on top of a slender hope, a monotonous dream, an always wish?
He kept dancing. The wind kept blowing. Maybe it was time to stop.
"You have another interview in five minutes," slicker said.
Guitar boy nodded, taking the stairs into the camper with quiet fortitude, long limbs pushing him forcefully into the cabin. In his pockets, his fingers clenched, hard and strong, soft and taut. His heart trembled, his fingers flexed.
Before going in, he took one last look for that girl, that girl he'd seen somewhere before, but she was nowhere to be seen. A dang crowd had gathered, obstructing his view. He hated crowds.
He slammed the door in submission.
Meanwhile, across the parking lot, a wiry Hispanic drove his yellow Mustang into a parking space near Gate 10, preparing to follow Lucy's exact footsteps. He could still smell her perfume.
She was here. He could feel it. And besides, he had watched her enter this exact gate mere moments before, with his binoculars.
But in his head it was his heart that knew exactly where she was and what she was thinking. He just used his eyes to prove himself right. Every time. Whenever he watched her. Which was most of the time. He even saw her in his sleep. Maybe someday she would see him, too.
He walked her way, spotting her easily.
Lucy and her family lingered in front of the bathrooms, waiting for their menfolk to arrive.
An inevitable discussion would follow.
Every year they gathered at this pitstop, in a halfhearted little family circle, all excited about fair food, fair exhibits, fair shows, fair shopping, fair fun. And every year they stood in this spot for seventeen minutes asking each other what they wanted to do, and each year for seventeen minutes they each replied with a misnomer, a red herring, a nonchalant and unobtrusive non-choice. They politely and frustratingly hemmed and hawed about which way to embark, what to do.
Lucy knew this well.
During minute eighteen she would suggest they meander over to the car show while waiting for the dog show to start.
And they did.
"Yoohoo, you," it said.
His nearly bald head, with an ear level crown of dark black hairy effort, leaned from an RV window. Dressed in a slick, slick, city slicker suit, he spoke to the boy with the guitar with a slick tone, sliding effortlessly sideways towards the stairs.
Guitar boy glanced up at slicker suit just when Lucy blacked out: both surprised, both faced with blackness.
He never saw her hit.
His manager hit him hard with another truth, this one in monotone.
"He's not coming, you know," the head said.
Guitar boy got up, slow, as if unfolding years of stiffness from his joints, and then lithely lifted the guitar into a nondescript black case, closing the lid on years of dreams.
One had come true, at least, but was it even his? Or was it an anemone? A windflower? Something that danced in the wind on top of a slender hope, a monotonous dream, an always wish?
He kept dancing. The wind kept blowing. Maybe it was time to stop.
"You have another interview in five minutes," slicker said.
Guitar boy nodded, taking the stairs into the camper with quiet fortitude, long limbs pushing him forcefully into the cabin. In his pockets, his fingers clenched, hard and strong, soft and taut. His heart trembled, his fingers flexed.
Before going in, he took one last look for that girl, that girl he'd seen somewhere before, but she was nowhere to be seen. A dang crowd had gathered, obstructing his view. He hated crowds.
He slammed the door in submission.
Meanwhile, across the parking lot, a wiry Hispanic drove his yellow Mustang into a parking space near Gate 10, preparing to follow Lucy's exact footsteps. He could still smell her perfume.
She was here. He could feel it. And besides, he had watched her enter this exact gate mere moments before, with his binoculars.
But in his head it was his heart that knew exactly where she was and what she was thinking. He just used his eyes to prove himself right. Every time. Whenever he watched her. Which was most of the time. He even saw her in his sleep. Maybe someday she would see him, too.
He walked her way, spotting her easily.
Lucy and her family lingered in front of the bathrooms, waiting for their menfolk to arrive.
An inevitable discussion would follow.
Every year they gathered at this pitstop, in a halfhearted little family circle, all excited about fair food, fair exhibits, fair shows, fair shopping, fair fun. And every year they stood in this spot for seventeen minutes asking each other what they wanted to do, and each year for seventeen minutes they each replied with a misnomer, a red herring, a nonchalant and unobtrusive non-choice. They politely and frustratingly hemmed and hawed about which way to embark, what to do.
Lucy knew this well.
During minute eighteen she would suggest they meander over to the car show while waiting for the dog show to start.
And they did.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Chapter 6
Everyone stared.
Ticket takers stopped taking tickets.
Mothers stopped breathing.
Crickets stopped chirping.
Elvis looked straight up into Lucy's eyes, lifted his left arm, and pointed at the fan above their heads, slightly to the left.
It had stopped spinning.
This child.
Lucy looked across the turnstile at her sister and shook her head. "The fan is out of batteries."
People stood, dumbfounded, as one gentle tear slipped softly out of Elvis's left blue eye, and then another. At number three, he blinked, shifted his gaze to the right, and discovered another fan.
This one worked.
Life resumed as usual.
In the rush of one person at a time slipping through the turnstiles, Laney had left one stroller behind, and gestured to Lucy to bring it in. Lucy slipped her backpack off her shoulder and stowed it in the back luggage rack, directly above her sister's tricolor cowhide purse.
Before slipping through, Lucy paused for a mandatory metal detector scan. When it beeped frantically, the rent-a-cop focused in on the backpack. Lucy, obeying orders, opened it up immediately to reveal her $2,000 camera.
A nod from rent-a-cop sent Lucy, Elvis, and the accompanying stroller through the turnstile and off to enjoy the fair.
Thirty yards later, Laney yanked her purse out from underneath Lucy's camera bag, hurriedly unzipped it, and rapidly closed it once again, stowing it absolutely away underneath camera bags, sippy cups, and a large plastic duffel bag.
"Sheesh, I forgot I still had Leland's gun," she whispered heavily under her breath.
"Laney Anne!!" Lucy exclaimed, shocked.
"What?" their mother said, unperturbed.
"You brought a gun?" Lucy said, too loudly, and was immediately shushed.
"Don't worry, he's meeting us here anyway," Laney said, starting to walk again. Her husband, a police officer, obviously carried a handweapon.
It still shocked Lucy that no one was dead yet.
They continued walking to the bathrooms, their usual stop and rendezvous with the rest of the family.
Lucy, still being held by Elvis's hand, looked around at the hot tubs, the end of the midway, the radio stations set up for remote broadcast, the dippin dots stations, the Budweiser tent... the usual suspects. Nothing changed. And then she saw him.
Tucked somewhere inside the mini-lot display of million dollar recreational vehicles, a boy. A man. A someone.
He didn't wear blue jeans. He didn't wear boots. He wore a newsboy cap in soft shell gray. She saw it almost before she saw him.
And she saw him.
He had a guitar, and he was strumming. Is that what they call it? Touching. Feeling. Tickling. Playing. His hands swayed gently, his fingers brushing little flecks of shade into the open hole of the guitar. How she wished she was those strings.
And then, miracle of all miracles, he glanced up from his guitar. She glanced up, too. When their eyes met, there was a sort of a mild boom.
A couple minutes later, when the crowd dispersed and Lucy no longer saw butterflies, she was told there had actually been a boom. Some guys carrying a wooden pole toward the milk display had inadvertently stopped, sideways, in Lucy's path.
Before her lights had gone out, she'd seen sparks.
And a boy.
A boy.
That was different.
Ticket takers stopped taking tickets.
Mothers stopped breathing.
Crickets stopped chirping.
Elvis looked straight up into Lucy's eyes, lifted his left arm, and pointed at the fan above their heads, slightly to the left.
It had stopped spinning.
This child.
Lucy looked across the turnstile at her sister and shook her head. "The fan is out of batteries."
People stood, dumbfounded, as one gentle tear slipped softly out of Elvis's left blue eye, and then another. At number three, he blinked, shifted his gaze to the right, and discovered another fan.
This one worked.
Life resumed as usual.
In the rush of one person at a time slipping through the turnstiles, Laney had left one stroller behind, and gestured to Lucy to bring it in. Lucy slipped her backpack off her shoulder and stowed it in the back luggage rack, directly above her sister's tricolor cowhide purse.
Before slipping through, Lucy paused for a mandatory metal detector scan. When it beeped frantically, the rent-a-cop focused in on the backpack. Lucy, obeying orders, opened it up immediately to reveal her $2,000 camera.
A nod from rent-a-cop sent Lucy, Elvis, and the accompanying stroller through the turnstile and off to enjoy the fair.
Thirty yards later, Laney yanked her purse out from underneath Lucy's camera bag, hurriedly unzipped it, and rapidly closed it once again, stowing it absolutely away underneath camera bags, sippy cups, and a large plastic duffel bag.
"Sheesh, I forgot I still had Leland's gun," she whispered heavily under her breath.
"Laney Anne!!" Lucy exclaimed, shocked.
"What?" their mother said, unperturbed.
"You brought a gun?" Lucy said, too loudly, and was immediately shushed.
"Don't worry, he's meeting us here anyway," Laney said, starting to walk again. Her husband, a police officer, obviously carried a handweapon.
It still shocked Lucy that no one was dead yet.
They continued walking to the bathrooms, their usual stop and rendezvous with the rest of the family.
Lucy, still being held by Elvis's hand, looked around at the hot tubs, the end of the midway, the radio stations set up for remote broadcast, the dippin dots stations, the Budweiser tent... the usual suspects. Nothing changed. And then she saw him.
Tucked somewhere inside the mini-lot display of million dollar recreational vehicles, a boy. A man. A someone.
He didn't wear blue jeans. He didn't wear boots. He wore a newsboy cap in soft shell gray. She saw it almost before she saw him.
And she saw him.
He had a guitar, and he was strumming. Is that what they call it? Touching. Feeling. Tickling. Playing. His hands swayed gently, his fingers brushing little flecks of shade into the open hole of the guitar. How she wished she was those strings.
And then, miracle of all miracles, he glanced up from his guitar. She glanced up, too. When their eyes met, there was a sort of a mild boom.
A couple minutes later, when the crowd dispersed and Lucy no longer saw butterflies, she was told there had actually been a boom. Some guys carrying a wooden pole toward the milk display had inadvertently stopped, sideways, in Lucy's path.
Before her lights had gone out, she'd seen sparks.
And a boy.
A boy.
That was different.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Chapter 5
With heated investigations of unmarred bumpers complete, Lucy Ballman embarked with her clan towards Gate 10, their usual Fair entrance.
"So the boys are meeting us where, exactly?" Lucy asked as her family unloaded a million strollers, diaper bags, and sippy cups from the back of the spotless Excursion.
She wondered why she even bothered to wonder. The sameness of it all echoed back at her from below the asphalt, smoking with disgust in the early morning sun.
Breathing a bit easier by the time they made it to the sidewalk, Lucy could tangibly feel the ten degree temperature difference between the asphalt parking lot and the paved sidewalk. She hoped at least this year would be a little different, temperature-wise. Would it kill this state to have a little sweater weather halfway through October?
No. In truth, it was all the same. Always.
The boys would find them at the restrooms when they entered the park, as per usual. After all, even if it weren't the longstanding accidental tradition... who could possibly miss the two infant, three stroller, two pregnant female pack... with a three foot fully dressed Elvis?
In Lucy's mind they were quite the spectacle, but then again a person who doesn't feel as if they fit in will always feel like they stand out. Truth be told, too many boots and five gallon hats wandered around in search of beer drinking horses and deep fried ice cream that the Ballman clan was just another flock of unfairly ordinary Texans.
With one lithe exception.
Pulling up to the turnstiles with their half price teacher tickets, Lucy's mother and sister easily made their way through the spinning people counter before Elvis let loose with a blood curdling scream, halting traffic a mile away.
"So the boys are meeting us where, exactly?" Lucy asked as her family unloaded a million strollers, diaper bags, and sippy cups from the back of the spotless Excursion.
She wondered why she even bothered to wonder. The sameness of it all echoed back at her from below the asphalt, smoking with disgust in the early morning sun.
Breathing a bit easier by the time they made it to the sidewalk, Lucy could tangibly feel the ten degree temperature difference between the asphalt parking lot and the paved sidewalk. She hoped at least this year would be a little different, temperature-wise. Would it kill this state to have a little sweater weather halfway through October?
No. In truth, it was all the same. Always.
The boys would find them at the restrooms when they entered the park, as per usual. After all, even if it weren't the longstanding accidental tradition... who could possibly miss the two infant, three stroller, two pregnant female pack... with a three foot fully dressed Elvis?
In Lucy's mind they were quite the spectacle, but then again a person who doesn't feel as if they fit in will always feel like they stand out. Truth be told, too many boots and five gallon hats wandered around in search of beer drinking horses and deep fried ice cream that the Ballman clan was just another flock of unfairly ordinary Texans.
With one lithe exception.
Pulling up to the turnstiles with their half price teacher tickets, Lucy's mother and sister easily made their way through the spinning people counter before Elvis let loose with a blood curdling scream, halting traffic a mile away.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Chapter 4
Arriving at Dallas Fair Park just as sunshine grew a bit painful, Lucy Ballman unbuckled her seat belt and fished a pink tweed newsboy cap out of her quilted faux-Chanel. Tugging it firmly over her ears, she turned to her nephews.
"Ready to see Big Tex?"
"He's the King," Elvis said, with a cheeky smile. Lucy began to unbuckle his seat belt, careful not to tangle his sparkly fringe.
"You know Leland is going to hate this, right?" Lucy asked Laney.
"Well you try telling a three year old what to wear," she replied shortly from the driver's seat as she leaned over the dash, trying to see her vehicle's nose. A parking attendant waved her vehemently forward. When she put it into park, he jumped up and down, continuing to wave her forward. "Am I not close enough?!"
Lucy stopped unbuckling Lucas's seat belt.
Again, Lacey shifted into park, but the attendant charged near her window, violently waving at her to continue pulling forward. His black face turned an odd color, almost like his neon orange vest.
And so Laney pulled forward, as ordered, with trepidation.
When the crunch of metal came, it felt like fingernails on a chalkboard: a creeping lurch, a grinding screech. Immediately the trusty parking attendant doubled over in laughter, his big white teeth reflected in the giant orange plastic flag he now waved around his belly as he laughed uncontrollably.
Lucy ignored the verbal altercation following this unfortunate prank. No use adding to the inevitable stress of the fair.
When she finally exited the vehicle, holding Elvis's hand, she paused.
Dressed in pink, dark hair glowing, she stood to watch fish of every iteration swim, wallow, dive, and flow about her.
They all wore blue jeans.
"Ready to see Big Tex?"
"He's the King," Elvis said, with a cheeky smile. Lucy began to unbuckle his seat belt, careful not to tangle his sparkly fringe.
"You know Leland is going to hate this, right?" Lucy asked Laney.
"Well you try telling a three year old what to wear," she replied shortly from the driver's seat as she leaned over the dash, trying to see her vehicle's nose. A parking attendant waved her vehemently forward. When she put it into park, he jumped up and down, continuing to wave her forward. "Am I not close enough?!"
Lucy stopped unbuckling Lucas's seat belt.
Again, Lacey shifted into park, but the attendant charged near her window, violently waving at her to continue pulling forward. His black face turned an odd color, almost like his neon orange vest.
And so Laney pulled forward, as ordered, with trepidation.
When the crunch of metal came, it felt like fingernails on a chalkboard: a creeping lurch, a grinding screech. Immediately the trusty parking attendant doubled over in laughter, his big white teeth reflected in the giant orange plastic flag he now waved around his belly as he laughed uncontrollably.
Lucy ignored the verbal altercation following this unfortunate prank. No use adding to the inevitable stress of the fair.
When she finally exited the vehicle, holding Elvis's hand, she paused.
Dressed in pink, dark hair glowing, she stood to watch fish of every iteration swim, wallow, dive, and flow about her.
They all wore blue jeans.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Chapter 3
"Why must you DO that?" Lucy accused as she clambored over a carseat to the tune of raucous laughter.
Her sister, from the driver's seat, and her mother, on the passenger side, turned around to look at her and laugh some more.
Climbing over Lucas, she accidentally knocked his embellished white Elvis shoe flying. Plunking herself down in the middle, she retrieved his shoe from the lap of his 3 year-old cousin, seated on her other side, dressed as a typical cowboy: hat, boots, jeans.
"What kind of daydream were you having?" Lucy's sister asked, carefully backing her giant vehicle through a gate and into the street, eyes focused hard on everything she could possible see via rear view mirror, including Lucy's face and arm flailing infants seated in the far last row.
"I just have a lot on my mind," Lucy replied, eyes wistfully planted on rolling roadways and an ever present, still rising sun, intently following her speedy pathway toward the fair.
Instantly an arm shot out, grabbing her hair, yanking it down.
It was Elvis.
He pulled Lucy's head so close to his eyes she could feel his snot dripping into her ear. She patiently waited, head cocked painfully towards his seat belt. There was no use fighting with the King.
"What on earth is he DOING?" came a voice from behind Lucy: it was Sara, her sister-in-law, mother of the cowboy.
"Looking for what's on my mind," Lucy replied, glibly.
After a few moments, Elvis released her hair, and Lucy sat upright again, adjusting her twisted seat belt and pink tweed dress back to normalcy.
"Why is he wearing the Elvis wig today, anyway?" Lucy asked, watching her mouth move in Elvis's blue reflective sunglasses. "I thought he hated that thing."
"He wanted to be like you," came his mother's voice from the driver's seat. She watched Lucy tug on Lucas's sideburns and wink. He winked back. She adjusted the rear view and directed her vision back to driving. Sisters. How different could we be?
"You know I had that dream again last night," Lucy's mother said.
"Which one?"
"The one where you move away in the middle of the night," she said, turning a sad pair of eyes to her daughter.
"Mom, you know I can't stay here forever," Lucy replied, not making eye contact. She twiddled her pinkies.
"But why not?" Mom asked.
"I'm 28, Mother," Lucy drawled, rolling like the never ending plain outside the speeding window. "I need to accomplish something."
Both nephews simultaneously bopped Lucy on her head with their arms, screaming at the top of their three year old lungs. Cousins.
A few moments of chaos later, Lucy understand why: they had spotted a large flying ant on the back of the DVD player.
"Smush it!" someone shouted.
"Nooooooo!" Both boys wailed.
"Why not?"
"Cause we posed to wove our ants," Cowboy said, "not smush em."
Lucy doubled over with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes as she struggled to translate the toddler speak to the other women in the car. In the process, she leaned too far forward, and the ant took up residence in her hair, and then quickly crawled down the back of her dress.
You never saw an aunt kill an ant with her butt so fast.
Her sister, from the driver's seat, and her mother, on the passenger side, turned around to look at her and laugh some more.
Climbing over Lucas, she accidentally knocked his embellished white Elvis shoe flying. Plunking herself down in the middle, she retrieved his shoe from the lap of his 3 year-old cousin, seated on her other side, dressed as a typical cowboy: hat, boots, jeans.
"What kind of daydream were you having?" Lucy's sister asked, carefully backing her giant vehicle through a gate and into the street, eyes focused hard on everything she could possible see via rear view mirror, including Lucy's face and arm flailing infants seated in the far last row.
"I just have a lot on my mind," Lucy replied, eyes wistfully planted on rolling roadways and an ever present, still rising sun, intently following her speedy pathway toward the fair.
Instantly an arm shot out, grabbing her hair, yanking it down.
It was Elvis.
He pulled Lucy's head so close to his eyes she could feel his snot dripping into her ear. She patiently waited, head cocked painfully towards his seat belt. There was no use fighting with the King.
"What on earth is he DOING?" came a voice from behind Lucy: it was Sara, her sister-in-law, mother of the cowboy.
"Looking for what's on my mind," Lucy replied, glibly.
After a few moments, Elvis released her hair, and Lucy sat upright again, adjusting her twisted seat belt and pink tweed dress back to normalcy.
"Why is he wearing the Elvis wig today, anyway?" Lucy asked, watching her mouth move in Elvis's blue reflective sunglasses. "I thought he hated that thing."
"He wanted to be like you," came his mother's voice from the driver's seat. She watched Lucy tug on Lucas's sideburns and wink. He winked back. She adjusted the rear view and directed her vision back to driving. Sisters. How different could we be?
"You know I had that dream again last night," Lucy's mother said.
"Which one?"
"The one where you move away in the middle of the night," she said, turning a sad pair of eyes to her daughter.
"Mom, you know I can't stay here forever," Lucy replied, not making eye contact. She twiddled her pinkies.
"But why not?" Mom asked.
"I'm 28, Mother," Lucy drawled, rolling like the never ending plain outside the speeding window. "I need to accomplish something."
Both nephews simultaneously bopped Lucy on her head with their arms, screaming at the top of their three year old lungs. Cousins.
A few moments of chaos later, Lucy understand why: they had spotted a large flying ant on the back of the DVD player.
"Smush it!" someone shouted.
"Nooooooo!" Both boys wailed.
"Why not?"
"Cause we posed to wove our ants," Cowboy said, "not smush em."
Lucy doubled over with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes as she struggled to translate the toddler speak to the other women in the car. In the process, she leaned too far forward, and the ant took up residence in her hair, and then quickly crawled down the back of her dress.
You never saw an aunt kill an ant with her butt so fast.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Chapter 2
Back home, water ran.
Every last tendril of sunrise dissipated into morning as Lucy stepped out of her cool down shower. Still, early morning sounds drifted through her parents' house: children waking, dogs guffawing, adults blowing stuffy noses, milk pouring.
She dressed quickly, adjusted her new hair, grabbed a PowerBar, headed out the door to eat alone.
iPod playing a Birdy station on Pandora, Lucy delicately pushed her hair back to secure her earphones and began to eat silently, surrounded by sound.
This sound she loved: soft-voiced, post-run, after-shower, eating-alone, morning-hope, fountain-gazing sounds. Her favorite fountain in this part of Earth. Surrounded by rose bushes and sparkly morning rays of sunshine, this fountain, just for her, rose triumphant from an inner edge of her family's back driveway.
Gazing into its orbs, she felt herself float, sparkling in misty, almost tangible, multicolored, soft as eye lashed in sunlight, delicate, refreshing, calming, floating, falling, flying, soaring, replenishing, purposeful water droplets: the easy kind. Each drop fulfilled its purpose and shone simultaneously. She prayed and prayed and then stopped praying. It was like this every day. To have purpose. To fulfill it. She watched it fall. Tears spilled from her eyes, and two fountains babbled in her morning gaze.
Someone watched her.
Across the drive, in a back corner of the fence, where years of gardening shears knocked tiny peepholes into shady corners of two by four fence rails, a dark pair of brown eyes glazed over, peering intently through at their fantasy prize.
Lucy, unaware, turned her face up, letting morning sun rays slowly dry her tears. From his peephole place, her watcher turned his face up, too, imagining sun kissed rays settling upon her much closer, wanting, craving, wishing, watching. Stalking.
Something crept up behind her, delicately, slowly, aiming to surprise. He could hardly restrain himself, knowing what was coming.
Lucy folded her hands to pray, again, wishing for a fulfillment of her purpose and her place, like her water fountain blues. She stared into the sun until her tired eyes closed, chin still defiantly tilted into midair. Defiant, and vulnerable, with her back to the house, to the drive.
Closer and closer it crept, eyes widening for the watcher in suspense. Suddenly it was upon her, poised to strike, stopping short of touching, but breathing ignominiously into her back.
It breathed.
HONK!!!!
Lucy's breathed clutched her insides as if never to leave again. She lunged to her feet, jumping low, protecting her head, shocked, hairs on the back of her neck raised up as high as the fountain in surprise. Flipping around to see the offending burst of noise, she was met by a barrage of laughter.
Familiar faces leaned out of her family's Excursion, pointing, chortling, guffawing, pleased with themselves at their successful surprise.
"Sheesh!" Lucy cried as laughter continued. "Don't you guys ever get tired of doing that? I mean, seriously. Ugh."
As she climbed into an open Excursion door, her watcher took a mental picture and then vanished into the world on the other side of his hole.
Every last tendril of sunrise dissipated into morning as Lucy stepped out of her cool down shower. Still, early morning sounds drifted through her parents' house: children waking, dogs guffawing, adults blowing stuffy noses, milk pouring.
She dressed quickly, adjusted her new hair, grabbed a PowerBar, headed out the door to eat alone.
iPod playing a Birdy station on Pandora, Lucy delicately pushed her hair back to secure her earphones and began to eat silently, surrounded by sound.
This sound she loved: soft-voiced, post-run, after-shower, eating-alone, morning-hope, fountain-gazing sounds. Her favorite fountain in this part of Earth. Surrounded by rose bushes and sparkly morning rays of sunshine, this fountain, just for her, rose triumphant from an inner edge of her family's back driveway.
Gazing into its orbs, she felt herself float, sparkling in misty, almost tangible, multicolored, soft as eye lashed in sunlight, delicate, refreshing, calming, floating, falling, flying, soaring, replenishing, purposeful water droplets: the easy kind. Each drop fulfilled its purpose and shone simultaneously. She prayed and prayed and then stopped praying. It was like this every day. To have purpose. To fulfill it. She watched it fall. Tears spilled from her eyes, and two fountains babbled in her morning gaze.
Someone watched her.
Across the drive, in a back corner of the fence, where years of gardening shears knocked tiny peepholes into shady corners of two by four fence rails, a dark pair of brown eyes glazed over, peering intently through at their fantasy prize.
Lucy, unaware, turned her face up, letting morning sun rays slowly dry her tears. From his peephole place, her watcher turned his face up, too, imagining sun kissed rays settling upon her much closer, wanting, craving, wishing, watching. Stalking.
Something crept up behind her, delicately, slowly, aiming to surprise. He could hardly restrain himself, knowing what was coming.
Lucy folded her hands to pray, again, wishing for a fulfillment of her purpose and her place, like her water fountain blues. She stared into the sun until her tired eyes closed, chin still defiantly tilted into midair. Defiant, and vulnerable, with her back to the house, to the drive.
Closer and closer it crept, eyes widening for the watcher in suspense. Suddenly it was upon her, poised to strike, stopping short of touching, but breathing ignominiously into her back.
It breathed.
HONK!!!!
Lucy's breathed clutched her insides as if never to leave again. She lunged to her feet, jumping low, protecting her head, shocked, hairs on the back of her neck raised up as high as the fountain in surprise. Flipping around to see the offending burst of noise, she was met by a barrage of laughter.
Familiar faces leaned out of her family's Excursion, pointing, chortling, guffawing, pleased with themselves at their successful surprise.
"Sheesh!" Lucy cried as laughter continued. "Don't you guys ever get tired of doing that? I mean, seriously. Ugh."
As she climbed into an open Excursion door, her watcher took a mental picture and then vanished into the world on the other side of his hole.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Chapter 1
Texas dirt roads run forever. Beneath shadows, sunrises, and sunsets, this mass of mapless alleys bury themselves in barren land, leap under livestock, and occasionally diving underneath dirty shallow stream water.
Windy days bluster, blow, bind passerby's eyes, but rusty roads remain, ever more, never to be confused with concrete.
On one of these roads Lucy Ballman ran.
Curiously, even horizons seem even larger in Texas. Lucy lived for horizons, chasing them like a whim: like a steady, relentless, absolutely madly determined and steadfast whim.
She ran.
Suns came up every day, went down as well. She caught the sunrise, barely missing it, her long legs shattering dust on old dirt roads. Pounding legs alerted cows along her path. Birds set to flight in a flash as she stumbled through their shocked flocks. Jack rabbits flew as she began to fly down hills, up empty gulleys, along broken roads.
This morning, this particular morning, she flew even faster.
Nothing worked. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
She broke every record, headphone wires floating behind her in a self-created breeze. Texas didn't give her any gusts of wind as reprieve from its stifling heat.
If she wanted something to move, she must move it.
She did.
Windy days bluster, blow, bind passerby's eyes, but rusty roads remain, ever more, never to be confused with concrete.
On one of these roads Lucy Ballman ran.
Curiously, even horizons seem even larger in Texas. Lucy lived for horizons, chasing them like a whim: like a steady, relentless, absolutely madly determined and steadfast whim.
She ran.
Suns came up every day, went down as well. She caught the sunrise, barely missing it, her long legs shattering dust on old dirt roads. Pounding legs alerted cows along her path. Birds set to flight in a flash as she stumbled through their shocked flocks. Jack rabbits flew as she began to fly down hills, up empty gulleys, along broken roads.
This morning, this particular morning, she flew even faster.
Nothing worked. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
She broke every record, headphone wires floating behind her in a self-created breeze. Texas didn't give her any gusts of wind as reprieve from its stifling heat.
If she wanted something to move, she must move it.
She did.
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