the other.
“Ah.”
After pumping the new tire to perfect firmness, checking the brakes and oiling the chain, there was a light sheen of sweat glowing on him. “So you’re a writer?” he asked, wiping his face on the front of his T-shirt.
“Oh! That reminds me, I’ve got your Guns N’ Roses T-shirt! I guess it’s kind of ruined, though,” I said, jumping up and grabbing the shirt from the shower curtain rod, where I’d hung it to dry this morning after trying to scrub the paint off with dishwashing liquid. The silkscreened band photo was still textured in places with what looked like gray frosting. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken it out on Axl Rose just because of your bad aim,” I snickered.
But Casey wasn’t listening. He was standing with his hands on his hips, staring at my computer monitor, openly reading the few lines I’d typed just before he showed up. His mouth hung slightly open, and a trickle of sweat dangled from the plump center of his upper lip, ready to drop. “Dear Chantelle,” he read out loud, “Save yourself.” He turned to look at me. “Chantelle?” he asked.
“Thanks for fixing the tire,” I said.
“No problem.” A moment passed slowly, crawling between us like a slow baby. “You’re mad, aren’t you?” he said. “But it was right there, and the font is so big! ‘Save yourself,’ that’s pretty serious advice, huh?”
I walked the two steps over to Casey. I handed him his defiled T-shirt and his bicycle pump, and, with my palm on his warm back, directed him to the door. “Bye,” I said, and pushed him out gently. He was blushing, a fact I appreciated only later. I closed the door and stood shaking my head in the wedge of room. Without the door open, it was as dark as night, lit by the blue moon of the computer monitor.
“Save yourself,” I read from the middle of the room, “when the sky begins convulsing.” The font really was quite large.
There was a timorous clanking on the front gate. I swung open the door and peered out through the iron curlicues at Casey, who looked pale in the afternoon sunlight. He blinked a couple of times, as though his eyeballs felt my pointed stare.
“My bike,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen cabinet behind me, where his shiny red BMX trick bike leaned like a piece of collateral.
Swings are benign, G-rated playground thrills for the under-ten set. Teenagers eschew swings for harder entertainment like tetherball and arson. But there are no roller coasters in New Orleans, a fact that allows me to meditate on the concept of thrill in a relatively pure way. And I do find swings thrilling—breathtaking, if you want to know the truth. It depends on the set, of course, how sturdy and grounded it is, how free you feel to really let loose and pump your legs until you feel your quadriceps tingle and your stomach churn with the effort. And this set, behind the St. Claude community pool and next to the basketball court, is as brawny as they come. The posts must be fifteen feet high, solid iron, and the four seats are made of wide bands of thick black Firestone rubber, strung with heavy-duty chains. This is a swingset made for adults, or obese children, with swings that can handle any body’s girth and verve.
Two chubby girls dawdle on the first swing. One sits on the other’s lap, barely swaying, and they giggle aggressively when I walk up. Apparently, the sight of a grown white woman in a dress that looks like it might belong to their grandmother strikes them as quite hilarious. I settle into the swing closest to the basketball court. As I lean back and begin my ascent, the skinny boy who just came on to me joins the pick-up game in progress—a crew of seven boys, four of whom are still wearing their school uniforms, with ties loosened and sleeves rolled up to their biceps. I like swinging while they’re playing; the first couple of times I got some looks, but most of them are used to me by now, and we have an unspoken
“Ah.”
After pumping the new tire to perfect firmness, checking the brakes and oiling the chain, there was a light sheen of sweat glowing on him. “So you’re a writer?” he asked, wiping his face on the front of his T-shirt.
“Oh! That reminds me, I’ve got your Guns N’ Roses T-shirt! I guess it’s kind of ruined, though,” I said, jumping up and grabbing the shirt from the shower curtain rod, where I’d hung it to dry this morning after trying to scrub the paint off with dishwashing liquid. The silkscreened band photo was still textured in places with what looked like gray frosting. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken it out on Axl Rose just because of your bad aim,” I snickered.
But Casey wasn’t listening. He was standing with his hands on his hips, staring at my computer monitor, openly reading the few lines I’d typed just before he showed up. His mouth hung slightly open, and a trickle of sweat dangled from the plump center of his upper lip, ready to drop. “Dear Chantelle,” he read out loud, “Save yourself.” He turned to look at me. “Chantelle?” he asked.
“Thanks for fixing the tire,” I said.
“No problem.” A moment passed slowly, crawling between us like a slow baby. “You’re mad, aren’t you?” he said. “But it was right there, and the font is so big! ‘Save yourself,’ that’s pretty serious advice, huh?”
I walked the two steps over to Casey. I handed him his defiled T-shirt and his bicycle pump, and, with my palm on his warm back, directed him to the door. “Bye,” I said, and pushed him out gently. He was blushing, a fact I appreciated only later. I closed the door and stood shaking my head in the wedge of room. Without the door open, it was as dark as night, lit by the blue moon of the computer monitor.
“Save yourself,” I read from the middle of the room, “when the sky begins convulsing.” The font really was quite large.
There was a timorous clanking on the front gate. I swung open the door and peered out through the iron curlicues at Casey, who looked pale in the afternoon sunlight. He blinked a couple of times, as though his eyeballs felt my pointed stare.
“My bike,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen cabinet behind me, where his shiny red BMX trick bike leaned like a piece of collateral.
Swings are benign, G-rated playground thrills for the under-ten set. Teenagers eschew swings for harder entertainment like tetherball and arson. But there are no roller coasters in New Orleans, a fact that allows me to meditate on the concept of thrill in a relatively pure way. And I do find swings thrilling—breathtaking, if you want to know the truth. It depends on the set, of course, how sturdy and grounded it is, how free you feel to really let loose and pump your legs until you feel your quadriceps tingle and your stomach churn with the effort. And this set, behind the St. Claude community pool and next to the basketball court, is as brawny as they come. The posts must be fifteen feet high, solid iron, and the four seats are made of wide bands of thick black Firestone rubber, strung with heavy-duty chains. This is a swingset made for adults, or obese children, with swings that can handle any body’s girth and verve.
Two chubby girls dawdle on the first swing. One sits on the other’s lap, barely swaying, and they giggle aggressively when I walk up. Apparently, the sight of a grown white woman in a dress that looks like it might belong to their grandmother strikes them as quite hilarious. I settle into the swing closest to the basketball court. As I lean back and begin my ascent, the skinny boy who just came on to me joins the pick-up game in progress—a crew of seven boys, four of whom are still wearing their school uniforms, with ties loosened and sleeves rolled up to their biceps. I like swinging while they’re playing; the first couple of times I got some looks, but most of them are used to me by now, and we have an unspoken
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