(Here's another short story I wrote for the ezine, In Sixteen bars. It takes place on a hot summer night and features fireflies, shooting stars, and a young man's heart's desire. I'd love to hear what you think.)
Shooting Star (Inspired by Elton John’s “Island Girl”)
I’m waiting for Dicky and Bobby to pick me up, and there’s Geena
D. hanging out in front of the E-Z Mart watching four little girls jump double
Dutch under the light of a streetlamp and chant:
Gypsy, gypsy
Please tell me.
What's my sweetheart going to be:
Doctor, Lawyer, banker, thief,
Sailor, soldier, Indian Chief?
Please tell me.
What's my sweetheart going to be:
Doctor, Lawyer, banker, thief,
Sailor, soldier, Indian Chief?
She taps her red stilettos in time to the song, and I can
tell she wants to jump in. I’m burning one and hoping she goes for it. It’ll make
her knockers bounce. She has a nice rack. She’s tall, too, like a tree I
wouldn’t mind climbing. Red leather pants cover legs that go all the way up, and
her purple tank top shows cleavage. She sees me checking her out and smiles at
me. I smile back, but we both know I can’t afford her.
Dicky and Bobby are late as usual. The sun has set, but it’s
still hot as hell. I can feel the heat coming up off the pavement through my
sneakers. One girl jumps out, another jumps in, but she snags the rope and gets
tangled. They all laugh, and the girl takes the rope ends in her hands,
punishment for breaking the rhythm. Arms move like beating wings as the slap slap slap of nylon on the sidewalk resumes.
A pimpmobile pulls up, the jumpers
falter again, and Diggs rolls down the driver’s window.
“Get in the car!”
Geena and I turn our heads to look at him at the same time.
She has a pissed off face looking at him, but she walks over to the car and
gets in the front seat. For sure, Diggs has got some John waiting for her
somewhere, or he would have never picked her up. I’ve seen him slap Geena
before, and it makes me want to kill him. Dicky and Bobby just laugh when I say
so.
“Diggs would bury you,” Bobby
says.
“He’s a fuckin’ bad ass. He’d
kill you slow,” Dicky agrees.
“He don’t got to treat her like
shit,” I say.
“She’s just a dumb whore.”
“Fuck you!”
I get mad when they call her names. They don’t know her like
I do. Geena lives across the hall from me and Granny’s apartment. Sometimes,
the smell of jerk chicken wafts out from her doorway into the hall. Sometimes
it’s the sound of smooth reggae. Once I heard her crying after a John left. The
next day she had bruises all over her face. She tried to cover it with makeup,
but I could tell. I’d take her away from it if I won the lottery. I’d punch
Diggs in his ugly fat face, take his car, and we’d drive the hell out of town,
me and Geena D.
I’m picturing our get away, watching Diggs’ pimpmobile drive
off. But then Dicky and Bobby pull up in Bobby’s old, beat up sedan and
shout, “Hey butthead, get in!” I flick my coffin nail in the gutter and climb
in the back seat. Bobby swings the car back into traffic and we roll.
“Where to?” asks Bobby.
“Dino’s,” says Dicky.
Bobby says, “Naw, I lost my
fake. They’d never let me in.”
“Arnie’s then,” Dicky suggests.
“Fuck Arnie’s,” I say. “I ain’t
drinking coffee all night.”
“Where then?” Dicky asks,
sounding pouty. He hates to be told no.
“I wanna see stars,” I say.
So Bobby drives to the edge of town and hops on the highway,
heading west. It takes thirty minutes of fast driving to shake the city lights.
They glow behind us, bleaching out the sky. Ten more minutes and we are in the
black. No streetlights, no moon, no nothing. The highway now cuts through fields
of corn, soybean, and peanuts, only occasionally passing a farmhouse set far
off the road. Some of the curtained windows flash; TVs, I guess. Bobby turns
down a dirt road. Car-window-high rows of corn flank both sides. We see a house
in the distance, but we ain’t going that far. Bobby cuts the headlights and
engine, and we get out of the car.
It sounds nothing like the city. The din of crickets, louder
than sirens, fills my ears. Lightning bugs flicker in a tree at the edge of the
field, and it looks like Christmas, all blinking. I light a cig and lay on the
warm hood of the car, stretched out with my back against the windshield. A sky
like a velvet Elvis spreads before me. A zillion stars glimmer; the cup of the Dipper’s
so full I can barely find its outline.
“What’s that white shit smeared
across the sky?” Bobby asks.
“It’s the Milky Way, you
dumbass.” I say. “It’s your fucking home galaxy.”
Dicky fires up a joint, and we pass it around. The darkness
thickens and even more stars fill the sky. One of them shoots across in a fiery
blur, and I make a wish.
Then we hear it, the sound of a
motor starting up. It’s coming from the house at the end of the road.
“Shit!” Bobby says. “Get in the
car!”
Dicky’s still toking, and he looks pretty stoned. He giggles
a little, but he doesn’t move. I grind my cancer stick under my heel; Smoky the
Bear would be proud, even if this ain’t the forest. I grab Dicky by the arm and
pull him off the hood.
“Get in, dumbass,” I say, pushing him into the passenger
seat. Then I climb in the back. Bobby cranks the engine and puts the car in
reverse. We see headlights coming our way. Bobby keeps his beams off and backs
down the dirt road in the dark, finally pulling out onto the empty highway. The
car points toward the city and all the damn lights.
We end up at Arnie’s anyway because now we all got the
munchies. Between us we’ve got ten bucks. It’s enough to split a short stack
and a side of bacon. I chain smoke and think about my wish, the one I made on
the shooting star. Dicky finishes the last bite of bacon, and it pisses Bobby
off. They start shoving each other in the booth, and it’s all fun and games
until the napkin dispenser hits the floor and bursts open in a flurry of white
paper. Then the nightshift waitress tells us, “Get the fuck out!”
After Bobby drops me off in front of Granny’s and my building,
I go upstairs and through the living room window out onto the fire escape above
the street. There’s four cigs left in my pack, and I want to smoke them all.
The pimpmobile pulls up in front of the building; loud hip-hop is booming out
of the windows. After a minute, Geena steps out onto the curb. Diggs burns
rubber as he peels away. She’s walking slow, like something hurts. The top of
her head vanishes from beneath my feet as she disappears into the building. A
few minutes later, from across the hall, I hear her apartment door close.
Above me, the Dipper’s outline shines. Its cup is empty -- all
these fuckin’ lights. There’s no sign of the Milky Way either. Geenas’s home.
She’s safe ... for now. Shooting stars are the shit -- grant your wishes every
time.