because things feel so transient right now.
I take two hundred and put it in the back pocket of my jean shorts. It’s summer out now, and it’ll be hotter than hell biking to the store. Most of my tank tops are a little on the small side and worn thin from being washed and worn so long. But my long hair covers up where my bra peeks through the fabric and it helps me to feel a little more decent.
Outside the sun is blazing. It licks at my bare skin as soon as the screen door slams shut behind me. I tan naturally, and I can practically feel my skin begin to toast to brown.
My bike is still at my Mama’s place. I consider knocking and telling her I’m taking it. In my mind, I picture myself, hands on hips and defiant tone. Wouldn’t she be surprised? There’s a car in the driveway, and old Cutlass, and that means she’s busy. Maybe I’m a coward, but fantasies are fantasies for a reason. I stow away the one of confronting Mama and tiptoe to the back of her trailer.
The grunts coming from inside sound sweaty and crude. How can a grunt sound sweaty? Trust me; hear enough of them and you can hear the moist overtones to the sounds of basic pleasure.
My skin crawls as I grab the handlebars. The bike is old and a little too small for me. It came from the local thrift, like everything else I owned. I saved for over a year to buy it when I was eleven.
The plastic streamers spouting from the handlebars washed out long ago. Now they’re coated with a permanent layer of dirt I can’t wash off. The tires were white, once. Now they’re the same clay color as the grounds of the park. It was a knock off brand to begin with, probably came from China, and I bought it well-loved.
And loved it even more.
What’s a bike to a kid like me? To any of the kids in a park like this? Freedom, plain and simple.
It’s what I feel now, peddling out of the park and onto the main road. Three miles straight will bring me into town and I can grab some food for the boys, some cleaning supplies, and maybe some flowers to brighten up the trailer.
The wind is in my hair and my cheeks are stinging with the pleasant glaze from the sun. No one’s on the road because it’s working hours, so most men are at the coal factory and most women are home with babies or working in the local shops.
Bike rides are for dreaming. When I was younger and first got this bike, my dreams were big. I’d go to college. Make a million dollars. Back then, before I got breasts, I had a lot of friends at the park. Yes, friends. This is important. Life ain’t all shit and sadness just because you live in a trailer.
Take Shep’s grandmother. She raised Shep and Buck in that trailer and they were nothing but smiles. When I was four or five they’d be playing, laughing, kicking a soccer ball around, and always have a pat for my head.
My friends, too. Leigh Anne and Mikey, had homes filled with laughter and more often than not I tried to get invited over to dinner. So I dreamed of making a million dollars and taking us all to live at the beach. I’ve never seen the ocean, but I know I’ll love it when I do.
My old bike riding dreams were of escape.
Now, though, I’m surprised by my desire to stay. To be in that small trailer with Shep and Buck. Making food. Making love. Making babies. Just… making happiness, I guess. Because I’m a firm believer happiness isn’t something owed to you. You gotta make it happen.
A car drives by and the horn blares, making me skid a little and my heart race. I hear a voice scream, “Nice titties, Vickie!” followed by whoopin’ and hollerin’ from the rolled down windows. It’s Mikey. He used to be a best friend. We made mudpies together. He was almost my first kiss.
Like I said, things changed when I grew breasts.
Mikey’s riding with some other guys in an old Lincoln Town Car. He’s hanging out the window, wagging his tongue at me. It’s hard to reconcile the dropout who hangs with a rough crowd at the pool hall
I take two hundred and put it in the back pocket of my jean shorts. It’s summer out now, and it’ll be hotter than hell biking to the store. Most of my tank tops are a little on the small side and worn thin from being washed and worn so long. But my long hair covers up where my bra peeks through the fabric and it helps me to feel a little more decent.
Outside the sun is blazing. It licks at my bare skin as soon as the screen door slams shut behind me. I tan naturally, and I can practically feel my skin begin to toast to brown.
My bike is still at my Mama’s place. I consider knocking and telling her I’m taking it. In my mind, I picture myself, hands on hips and defiant tone. Wouldn’t she be surprised? There’s a car in the driveway, and old Cutlass, and that means she’s busy. Maybe I’m a coward, but fantasies are fantasies for a reason. I stow away the one of confronting Mama and tiptoe to the back of her trailer.
The grunts coming from inside sound sweaty and crude. How can a grunt sound sweaty? Trust me; hear enough of them and you can hear the moist overtones to the sounds of basic pleasure.
My skin crawls as I grab the handlebars. The bike is old and a little too small for me. It came from the local thrift, like everything else I owned. I saved for over a year to buy it when I was eleven.
The plastic streamers spouting from the handlebars washed out long ago. Now they’re coated with a permanent layer of dirt I can’t wash off. The tires were white, once. Now they’re the same clay color as the grounds of the park. It was a knock off brand to begin with, probably came from China, and I bought it well-loved.
And loved it even more.
What’s a bike to a kid like me? To any of the kids in a park like this? Freedom, plain and simple.
It’s what I feel now, peddling out of the park and onto the main road. Three miles straight will bring me into town and I can grab some food for the boys, some cleaning supplies, and maybe some flowers to brighten up the trailer.
The wind is in my hair and my cheeks are stinging with the pleasant glaze from the sun. No one’s on the road because it’s working hours, so most men are at the coal factory and most women are home with babies or working in the local shops.
Bike rides are for dreaming. When I was younger and first got this bike, my dreams were big. I’d go to college. Make a million dollars. Back then, before I got breasts, I had a lot of friends at the park. Yes, friends. This is important. Life ain’t all shit and sadness just because you live in a trailer.
Take Shep’s grandmother. She raised Shep and Buck in that trailer and they were nothing but smiles. When I was four or five they’d be playing, laughing, kicking a soccer ball around, and always have a pat for my head.
My friends, too. Leigh Anne and Mikey, had homes filled with laughter and more often than not I tried to get invited over to dinner. So I dreamed of making a million dollars and taking us all to live at the beach. I’ve never seen the ocean, but I know I’ll love it when I do.
My old bike riding dreams were of escape.
Now, though, I’m surprised by my desire to stay. To be in that small trailer with Shep and Buck. Making food. Making love. Making babies. Just… making happiness, I guess. Because I’m a firm believer happiness isn’t something owed to you. You gotta make it happen.
A car drives by and the horn blares, making me skid a little and my heart race. I hear a voice scream, “Nice titties, Vickie!” followed by whoopin’ and hollerin’ from the rolled down windows. It’s Mikey. He used to be a best friend. We made mudpies together. He was almost my first kiss.
Like I said, things changed when I grew breasts.
Mikey’s riding with some other guys in an old Lincoln Town Car. He’s hanging out the window, wagging his tongue at me. It’s hard to reconcile the dropout who hangs with a rough crowd at the pool hall
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