they
blended in so well after a while.
He hated assumptions and yet one must
draw a conclusion once in a while.
Did it matter if he was right or
wrong? Did it change the meaning? How would that change the
eventual outcome?
A man could only ask, and perhaps all
would be revealed in due time.
They were all the same. They were all
different. A house, one that seemed so promising, so unique on
first onset, and then trudging by, noting the details as you went,
might be pretty ordinary after all. It might be empty and forlorn,
with no signs of the life that surely went on there at some hour or
other. A house might suit its owner, and the owner might suit the
house…and so on and so forth.
People lived there. He could see that
much, and that was about all. It was sheer speculation.
Someone had to live there. And after a
while, each one had blended into the next and each one had so
easily and quickly been forgotten.
They were eminently forgettable, a
special gift of the human mind.
It was a wonder what your mind
retained at all sometimes.
Up ahead, perhaps three hundred yards,
lay an intersection. He walked towards the stop sign, as the sun
moved ever westwards and his belly rumbled.
In spite of the birds, the bees
buzzing in the tall weeds and familiar blue heads of the chicory,
which he at least recognized, strung along and across the fields,
there by the side of the road, Franklyn felt lost and
alone.
If anyone asked, not that anyone ever
would—he could see that quite clearly now, he would have no
answer.
What in the hell am I doing
here?
There were no easy answers sometimes.
And, there were times when you wanted to get out of one place
without having any other particular place to go before you
left…sometimes rather hurriedly.
On a whim, almost.
Almost as if there were no longer any
time to waste.
The gravel crunched as he walked. The
scent of something sweet came on the wind.
He was free, and that had to count for
something.
Free at last.
Something buzzed, shrill, high and
penetrating. It was a cicada.
When he was a boy, he’d heard that
sound through the open rear window of the family car. His dad’s old
’66 Rambler, painted battleship grey, in the garage, with a couple
of quarts of tire-store paint. His old man loved that thing. They
must have been coming or going, on their way someplace else, on the
proverbial family camping-type vacation. His old man had a boat on
a trailer and all of their things were in it. Coolers and tents and
sleeping bags.
At the time, he’d thought it was the
telephone poles that were singing.
He was just a child of course, seven,
maybe eight years old.
Nice Ride
There was really only one place to go,
of course, and that was straight ahead.
“ Neither rain, nor sleet,
nor dark of night, shall keep me from my appointed
rounds….”
United States Postal Service. An
inspiring thought.
The stop sign stood on his right as he
walked past, and a mental picture of a cop whooshing up out of
nowhere and ticketing him for jay-walking flashed through his mind.
There was nothing off to the right or left but slight elevation
changes, ditches lining the road, a few distant treetops and the
verdant green of the fields of corn, coming up nicely now at about
two to three feet tall.
The road rose in front of
him.
It was going to be a long hot summer,
and yet, with plenty of rain. He’d seen some of that already. He
didn’t really mind, as it cooled things down and forced him to rest
every few days….out of the rain.
A familiar sound droned its way into
his consciousness. It was a truck, a white, flatbed Ford pickup
from a bygone era. One replete with lacquered stake-work sides and
white-letter tires all around, fifty series up front and sixties on
the back. It rolled, braking, engine at idle, up to the stop-sign
and then it came to a halt.
The motor rumbled and purred and he
couldn’t help himself. He stopped. He turned and stared.
That was one wild ride.
With
blended in so well after a while.
He hated assumptions and yet one must
draw a conclusion once in a while.
Did it matter if he was right or
wrong? Did it change the meaning? How would that change the
eventual outcome?
A man could only ask, and perhaps all
would be revealed in due time.
They were all the same. They were all
different. A house, one that seemed so promising, so unique on
first onset, and then trudging by, noting the details as you went,
might be pretty ordinary after all. It might be empty and forlorn,
with no signs of the life that surely went on there at some hour or
other. A house might suit its owner, and the owner might suit the
house…and so on and so forth.
People lived there. He could see that
much, and that was about all. It was sheer speculation.
Someone had to live there. And after a
while, each one had blended into the next and each one had so
easily and quickly been forgotten.
They were eminently forgettable, a
special gift of the human mind.
It was a wonder what your mind
retained at all sometimes.
Up ahead, perhaps three hundred yards,
lay an intersection. He walked towards the stop sign, as the sun
moved ever westwards and his belly rumbled.
In spite of the birds, the bees
buzzing in the tall weeds and familiar blue heads of the chicory,
which he at least recognized, strung along and across the fields,
there by the side of the road, Franklyn felt lost and
alone.
If anyone asked, not that anyone ever
would—he could see that quite clearly now, he would have no
answer.
What in the hell am I doing
here?
There were no easy answers sometimes.
And, there were times when you wanted to get out of one place
without having any other particular place to go before you
left…sometimes rather hurriedly.
On a whim, almost.
Almost as if there were no longer any
time to waste.
The gravel crunched as he walked. The
scent of something sweet came on the wind.
He was free, and that had to count for
something.
Free at last.
Something buzzed, shrill, high and
penetrating. It was a cicada.
When he was a boy, he’d heard that
sound through the open rear window of the family car. His dad’s old
’66 Rambler, painted battleship grey, in the garage, with a couple
of quarts of tire-store paint. His old man loved that thing. They
must have been coming or going, on their way someplace else, on the
proverbial family camping-type vacation. His old man had a boat on
a trailer and all of their things were in it. Coolers and tents and
sleeping bags.
At the time, he’d thought it was the
telephone poles that were singing.
He was just a child of course, seven,
maybe eight years old.
Nice Ride
There was really only one place to go,
of course, and that was straight ahead.
“ Neither rain, nor sleet,
nor dark of night, shall keep me from my appointed
rounds….”
United States Postal Service. An
inspiring thought.
The stop sign stood on his right as he
walked past, and a mental picture of a cop whooshing up out of
nowhere and ticketing him for jay-walking flashed through his mind.
There was nothing off to the right or left but slight elevation
changes, ditches lining the road, a few distant treetops and the
verdant green of the fields of corn, coming up nicely now at about
two to three feet tall.
The road rose in front of
him.
It was going to be a long hot summer,
and yet, with plenty of rain. He’d seen some of that already. He
didn’t really mind, as it cooled things down and forced him to rest
every few days….out of the rain.
A familiar sound droned its way into
his consciousness. It was a truck, a white, flatbed Ford pickup
from a bygone era. One replete with lacquered stake-work sides and
white-letter tires all around, fifty series up front and sixties on
the back. It rolled, braking, engine at idle, up to the stop-sign
and then it came to a halt.
The motor rumbled and purred and he
couldn’t help himself. He stopped. He turned and stared.
That was one wild ride.
With
Similar Books
