Read Online I Love You and I'm Leaving You Anyway by Tracy McMillan - Free Book Online
Authors: Tracy McMillan
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she gave me a very funny look. So now whenever anyone asks, I just say I want to be a nurse.
We walk out of the record store loaded with music. In addition to my new Cher porn, I’ve got a half-dozen 45s: “Little Willy” by Sweet, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” by Tony Orlando and Dawn, “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence, and “Sing” by the Carpenters. I’ll play them on the turquoise portable record player my dad bought me a few outings ago.
“Hey, baby. You want to go fishing?”
“Yeah!” I shout. My dad knows I love to fish. It’s pretty much the only time I’m able to sit absolutely still.
But it’s too late to go get our fishing poles and buy some worms and head to Cedar Lake to get in a boat for some real fishing, so mydad pulls over near Shingle Creek (locally pronounced “crick”), a tiny riverlike body of water that wends its way through North Minneapolis. (South Minneapolis has its own crick, called Minnehaha Creek.) It’s sunny out, and little bits of gold dapple the surface of the water where the light is filtering through the elm trees. The creek is too cold to really step into, but there are little pools of shallow water near the edge where it’s fun to stick your hand in and pull out a pretty rock. Sometimes if you break them open, they have the mesmerizing concentric circles of an agate.
“Look!” I blurt out, pointing at a school of minnows that has taken up residence in a tiny eddy. “Baby fish!”
I’m really excited. But it’s not enough for me to just witness the beauty of the minnows. I want to catch one. I try to trap one of the wriggly little suckers in my cupped hands. I’m not even close.
“Wait a minute,” Freddie says. I turn to see him trekking back up the short embankment toward the car. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
He’s back in a jiffy, toting a glass jar. I have no idea where he got it. Maybe he just drives around with old jars in his big car. Probably it had something disgusting in it that he likes to eat, like pickled pigs’ feet or some other nasty Southern food.
“Go ahead and catch one,” he says encouragingly. He gives the jar a quick rinse by swishing cold, clear Shingle Creek water around inside of it. “You can put it in this,” he says, tossing me the jar.
Ghetto aquarium in hand, I run along the creek’s edge, stopping every so often to scoop up a jarful of water and checking to see if there are any wriggling little fishes in there. My dad runs along behind me.
“Did you get one?” he asks. He’s almost as excited as I am.
“No,” I say, submerging the jar again. I pull it up to eye level to see if there’s a minnow in there. Nothing. Except leaves, and sticks, and dirt. I am bereft. “I’m never gonna catch a minnow!”
Freddie laughs at how emotional I am. “Just try again,” he says.
I do try again, and again, but each time, I come up empty. “I can’t, ” I wail.
I’m not a little girl with a lot of perseverance. I think if I don’t get something the first couple of times I try for it, it means the gods have chosen some other little girl for the honor of catching a minnow in a jar. Like maybe Buffy from the TV show Family Affair . She (and her ilk) seem to have been chosen for most of the honors.
“Keep trying,” my dad offers. “You’ll get one.” He seems so certain.
But every attempt is coming up empty, and it’s starting to feel personal. “They won’t let me catch them!” I’m frustrated now and getting near tears. My feet are soaking wet, and the watermark on my jeans is hitting somewhere around the knee. I’m cold, too. Spring in Minnesota is like winter everywhere else.
“Tracy Renee,” he says, sounding almost impatient, “put that jar in the water and catch a minnow.” He’s really firm about it, which takes me by surprise. Catch the damn minnow; that’s the tone of voice he just used. I find it scary and liberating to be
We walk out of the record store loaded with music. In addition to my new Cher porn, I’ve got a half-dozen 45s: “Little Willy” by Sweet, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” by Tony Orlando and Dawn, “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence, and “Sing” by the Carpenters. I’ll play them on the turquoise portable record player my dad bought me a few outings ago.
“Hey, baby. You want to go fishing?”
“Yeah!” I shout. My dad knows I love to fish. It’s pretty much the only time I’m able to sit absolutely still.
But it’s too late to go get our fishing poles and buy some worms and head to Cedar Lake to get in a boat for some real fishing, so mydad pulls over near Shingle Creek (locally pronounced “crick”), a tiny riverlike body of water that wends its way through North Minneapolis. (South Minneapolis has its own crick, called Minnehaha Creek.) It’s sunny out, and little bits of gold dapple the surface of the water where the light is filtering through the elm trees. The creek is too cold to really step into, but there are little pools of shallow water near the edge where it’s fun to stick your hand in and pull out a pretty rock. Sometimes if you break them open, they have the mesmerizing concentric circles of an agate.
“Look!” I blurt out, pointing at a school of minnows that has taken up residence in a tiny eddy. “Baby fish!”
I’m really excited. But it’s not enough for me to just witness the beauty of the minnows. I want to catch one. I try to trap one of the wriggly little suckers in my cupped hands. I’m not even close.
“Wait a minute,” Freddie says. I turn to see him trekking back up the short embankment toward the car. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
He’s back in a jiffy, toting a glass jar. I have no idea where he got it. Maybe he just drives around with old jars in his big car. Probably it had something disgusting in it that he likes to eat, like pickled pigs’ feet or some other nasty Southern food.
“Go ahead and catch one,” he says encouragingly. He gives the jar a quick rinse by swishing cold, clear Shingle Creek water around inside of it. “You can put it in this,” he says, tossing me the jar.
Ghetto aquarium in hand, I run along the creek’s edge, stopping every so often to scoop up a jarful of water and checking to see if there are any wriggling little fishes in there. My dad runs along behind me.
“Did you get one?” he asks. He’s almost as excited as I am.
“No,” I say, submerging the jar again. I pull it up to eye level to see if there’s a minnow in there. Nothing. Except leaves, and sticks, and dirt. I am bereft. “I’m never gonna catch a minnow!”
Freddie laughs at how emotional I am. “Just try again,” he says.
I do try again, and again, but each time, I come up empty. “I can’t, ” I wail.
I’m not a little girl with a lot of perseverance. I think if I don’t get something the first couple of times I try for it, it means the gods have chosen some other little girl for the honor of catching a minnow in a jar. Like maybe Buffy from the TV show Family Affair . She (and her ilk) seem to have been chosen for most of the honors.
“Keep trying,” my dad offers. “You’ll get one.” He seems so certain.
But every attempt is coming up empty, and it’s starting to feel personal. “They won’t let me catch them!” I’m frustrated now and getting near tears. My feet are soaking wet, and the watermark on my jeans is hitting somewhere around the knee. I’m cold, too. Spring in Minnesota is like winter everywhere else.
“Tracy Renee,” he says, sounding almost impatient, “put that jar in the water and catch a minnow.” He’s really firm about it, which takes me by surprise. Catch the damn minnow; that’s the tone of voice he just used. I find it scary and liberating to be
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