*My Summer as a Street Walker*

I remember my summer as a street walker. Just about every night, I took a super long stroll. On the chance you might drive by. I always went the same way. To make myself easy to find.

          My heart would do a do-si-do the second I heard your car. I knew its sound. Could make it out a block away. Sometimes two. I’d count the seconds ‘til you pulled alongside me. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

          “Want a ride?”

          I always made it a point to raise my eyebrows and O my mouth. “Well, hello. What are you doing over this way?”

          “Just cruising around.” Liar. You were searching for me.

          You leaned over and opened the door. I slid in. Rubbed the maroon velour upholstery with my cheek. I flicked the yellow Christmas tree-looking air freshener that hung from the mirror. Eventually the pine scent wafted its way to me. Over by the door.

          I thought you’d never kiss me. You'd take me on a tour all around my neighborhood and into the surrounding ones. I just sat there, leaning against my door, the arm rest poking into my kidney. I wondered what it would be like. When you finally did. Kiss me.

          Then came that one storm. It’d been threatening all day. Bubbled dark clouds came and went. The air felt still, yet crackly. I could smell the rain before the first drop kerplopped on your windshield. The downpour came hard and fast. Sounded like a million marbles dropped on your car roof. I cowered in my corner.

          You pulled under a big oak tree, shifted the car into park, and patted the center of the seat.

          “Why don’t you scoot over?”

          So I did. I half sat, half reclined. Rested my head on your shoulder. It was awkward though. I knew I’d probably have a crick in my neck in the morning. I didn’t care. You smelled clean. Like Prell  and Irish Spring. I wanted to lick your arm, the part that supported my left ear. Just to see . . .

          Thunder cracked. I jumped. Lightning lit the inside of your car. I buried my face in your t-shirt. And then you did it. You kissed me. And I didn’t like it.

          After a moment, I pulled back. “Kissing you’s like kissing a Tang jar,” I said. “Don’t you ever shut your mouth?”

          You flinched, like I’d smacked you, so I put my hand over my lips. Tried to stuff the words back in. You put your seat belt back on and started the car. I went back to my place. Over by the door.

I kept on street walking. Went out every other night ‘til school started up again. Thought, maybe . . .  But you were a football player and I was a nobody. I take that back. I wasn’t a nobody. I was a ‘tweener—in between the popular kids and the grits. I liked everyone and everyone seemed to like me. Then we all graduated and that was behind us.

          You found me at Myrtle Beach. Couple days after graduation.  I was beach walking, not street walking. Me and my girlfriends invited you to join us. We were on our way to whatever hotel it was that had that James Taylor sound-alike. In the bar on the top floor, you made sure I always had a cold beer in my hand and a warm arm around my waist. You grinned at my girlfriends and me as we sang harmony to “Carolina on My Mind” and “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You.”

          The next night, you accompanied us again. After the guitar guy sang, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” you leaned over and blew in my ear. I wriggled. And giggled.

          Your breath  stirred my hair. “Let’s go see if it’s high tide.”

          The log we sat on felt like it’d been under the sea for a decade. I knew my butt was getting damp, but I didn’t mind. You played with the fringe on my jean cut-offs.

          “Those your car wash shorts?”

          I nodded. “Yep.”

          I’d told you how my shorts and I  had caused a car wreck at a four-way intersection the month before. It was for a good cause. The car wash.

          I dug my toes into the beach. Down to where it was cold and smooth. You started piling sand up in great handfuls ‘til all that showed was my knees. I tried to move my feet, but they were stuck tight. I tugged so hard I fell backward off the log. You joined me.

          I shivered as a breeze came off the ocean. The warmth of too much sun undulated off my chest. You balanced on your elbow beside me. In the lightshine of a nearby walkway, your hair appeared blue black. Your teeth flashed as you smiled at something I didn’t know.

          Then it was like my mouth was rainbow sherbet and you wanted to taste all the flavors—right, left, center. I reached up and touched your curls. To see if they were soft from the South Carolina water or crisp from the salt air. Your neck was warm. Hot even.

          I nibbled my bottom lip. “Oh my.”

          You squinted down at me. “What?”

          “The Tang jar’s gone.”

          One corner of your mouth lifted. “Yeah?”

          Sand found my scalp. It itched, but I didn’t scratch. I closed my eyes so you couldn’t see them.

          “Um . . . maybe I should doublecheck.”

Yes, No, Maybe So--Part IV

When Robbie first started sniffing, I was fairly certain he was admiring my Love’s Baby Soft perfume so I didn’t say anything. I just sat real still letting him like the aroma of me. I pondered whether or not to go upstairs and change into my favorite sundress for my Dancing Queen number. After a couple minutes though, Robbie’s huffing and puffing started to seriously get on my nerves. I squirmed to look him in the eye.

            “Do you have a problem?”

            He cocked his head and took in air yet again. “Do you smell something?” he said. 

            I sniffed. “No,” I said. “Like what?”

            He lifted his chin and squinted. “Not sure.”

            I nodded toward the back of the basement. “Well, in the corner back there, there’s a toilet,” I said. “And the guys miss a lot. Maybe that’s what you smell.”         

            Robbie scrunched his face and shook his head. “Naw, that’s not it.”

            I stood and inhaled deep. “Oh, I know what it is,” I said. “Last winter our cat Ginger had kittens in the cabinet beside the dryer. She made a cave inside Dad’s World War II blankets and I swear, it has smelled like Campbell’s Chicken and Stars soup ever since.”

            I looked down at him. “Is that what you smell?” I said. “Chicken soup and old wool?”

            When he glanced up I noticed his eyes didn’t just have super long lashes, they were a nice color too. Maple leaf green maybe. And he had whiskers also, blonde ones. No guys I knew in the eighth grade going into ninth had facial hair yet. That was kind of cool. But under his stubble, his face had taken on an odd color. Kind of like gravel.

            Jude heaved himself off the couch and onto all fours.  “Hold on,” he said.” We all leaned forward and gawked as he stuck his arm under the couch.

            “I know what it is,” he said.

            The three of us waited for his revelation.

            “Dad’s brother visited last weekend,” he said. He peered up at Robbie. “You know, the schizophrenic one with the big lips I told you about. Dad always hides Ginger’s kitty litter box under here. Hoping it’ll make Uncle Will cut his visits short.”

            Once the container was free of the sleeper sofa’s hem, Jude used his feet to scoot it back under the stairs, in between the furnace and water heater. He came back around and leaned against the fireplace.  

            “Breathe deep,” he said to Robbie. “Better?”

            Robbie took a tentative breath and gagged. He immediately pinched his nose and mouth breathed.

            “You guys really don’t smell that?” he said. “Dang! It’s like something died.”

            I let a breath go in and out through my nose. “Smells normal to me,” I said. “Maybe we’re just used to it.” I turned to Katie. “Do you smell anything?”
            Katie shrugged. “I’ve got a cold,” she said. “I can’t smell a thing.”

            That’s when Jude’s face went all funny. “Oh, no,” he said.

            I tensed. “Oh, no what?”

            Jude stepped between Mom’s extra refrigerator and the TV to get at the shelves against the wall.

            “We forgot all about it,” he said.

            “Forgot about what?” I said.

            He pointed toward the top shelf. I stood so I could check out what he was talking about. Back in the corner was a Cool Whip container, its lid half on, half off.

           Katie and Robbie got up too. Rolled up on their tiptoes to see what they could see.

            “What the heck is it?” Robbie said. He kept his nose pinched and took a step toward the shelves. “Good Lord, Jude. There’s steam coming out of it.”

            “Ham salad,” Jude said, without turning around. “Six month old, unrefrigerated ham salad. We thought it would be cool, my brothers and me, to make our own catfish bait. Supposedly catfish like stinky stuff.”

            Robbie’s face contorted. “Aw, man! That’s nasty.”

            Katie cupped her hand over her mouth and nose. Her eyes were huge.

            “You gotta get that stuff outta here, Jude” I said. “If Dad finds it, I'm not kidding, he will jerk a knot in your tail.”

            When we couldn’t find the stepladder, Jude squatted low. “Get on my shoulders,” he said.

            I shuddered and moved away. “I’m not touching it.”

            Jude turned to Katie. She spoke from inside her hand. “No way.”

            “Robbie?”

            Robbie pretended not to hear.

            “Fine!” Jude said. He grabbed the fireplace poker and headed for the corner. Inch by inch he nudged the Cool Whip container toward the shelf edge. He dropped the poker and reached up. Rolled his fingers on the side of the container, attempting to get a grip. Suddenly Ginger, our cat, came careening down the steps and slammed into the back of Jude’s legs. The Cool Whip container flew out of Jude’s hands, sailed through the air, and landed with a splash. In the cooler of beer. The ham salad, now a gelatinous, blue-furred lump, floated to the top of the iced water. Looked like some sort of  animal pelt. Jude picked up the fireplace shovel and approached the mess.

            We all froze as Dad's steps thundered toward the basement door. “Jude!”

            Jude set down the shovel and walked over to the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, sir?” 

            “Bring up some cold beer, son.”

            Jude grinned and did a mock salute. “Yes, sir!” he said. “Right away, sir!”

Yes, No, Maybe So--Part III

Every night after supper, Dad camped out in the living room. Over the course of each evening he’d nurse two bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and polish off an entire can of salted peanuts, the Spanish ones with the skins on them. I never got why he liked those kind. The skins made for a tooth flossing nightmare. Dad didn’t mind though. He wasn’t much for dental hygiene. Come to think of it, he didn’t care much about personal hygiene at all beyond combing his hair and Abraham Lincoln beard. I knew for a fact he rarely used deodorant and Mom and I had to beg him to wear aftershave whenever he treated us to supper at Shoney’s.

            So while Dad would fold himself into the floral Ethan Allen wing chair under the picture window and devour peanuts and guzzle beer, Mom would arrange herself and her muumuu-looking housecoat, usually a pastel blue floral, on the couch. She’d puff on her cigs—Benson and Hedges Light—and sip Tab diet cola from a glass she got in a box of Tide laundry detergent. I’m fairly certain she washed it first. Maybe. She wasn’t Suzy Homemaker or anything. In fact, one of her favorite sayings was, “You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”

            Most nights my parents watched television or read. Dad was a big time reader. Mom too, but she usually went for paperback romances. Dad read smart stuff because he was that kind of guy. He had three degrees including one from Harvard. Yep, my daddy was smart, but he sure didn’t know everything.

            More often than not at night, some or all four of us kids would be in the basement glued to the tube. Sometimes we had friends over, not because Mom was the Kool-Aid mom or anything. Just because.

            If communication was necessary between us and the folks, we yelled up or they stood at the top of the stairs and hollered down. If Dad was worn out, he just roared from his wing chair.

            “You kids pipe down!” Or, “Stop horsing around! Don’t make me come down there. I swear. I'll tan your hide.”

            Only when we got really loud would he stomp down the stairs. It was never Mom. She didn’t scare us. That particular night, the one with the Rolling Rock, Jude made sure we didn’t make too much noise. He was good at that.

           

After two minutes of whispering in the kitchen, Katie Lynn and I tiptoed back down the painted gray steps. Tried to keep from creaking the stairs. All three of Charlie’s pistol-packing Angels darted hither and yon across the TV screen but the boys didn’t pay any mind. They were too busy hawking loogies at the fireplace. Without opening the screen. Viscous, pale green gobs stuck and slid. Smeared and clung. Left shiny trails in the charred mesh.

            “Ga-ross,” I said.

            Both guys whipped around at the same time, swiping their wrists across their lips. I saw Robbie puff into his hand and sniff. A corner of my mouth lifted. He was cuter than I remembered.

            Jude patted the couch. “Why don’t you all come down,’ he said. “Sit a spell.”

            I started back up the stairs. “I don’t think—”

            Katie Lynn gripped my wrist and tugged. “Okay,” she said. “We should sit boy girl, boy girl.”

            I grumbled under my breath as I wedged myself into the space between the sofa arm and Robbie’s leg. Katie made herself at home between the guys. Robbie reached into the styrofoam cooler and lifted out a green bottle. Wiped the wet off with his t-shirt. Jude tossed him the bottle opener. The cap catapulted across the room with a sucky sound. Robbie grinned and handed the icy beer to me. Repeated the process for Katie.

            I hovered my nose over the bottle top. “Smells like hamster pee.”

            Robbie chuckled “Try it,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

            I sipped then wrinkled my nose. “Tastes like it too,” I said. “Jiminy Christmas! How do you all drink so much of this stuff?”

            Jude leaned forward. “See?” he said. “I told you we shoulda bought Boone’s Farm.”

            Robbie huffed. “Who doesn’t like beer?”

            Jude stood. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Be right back.” He took the stairs three at a time. Returned with two straws. “Try these,” he said as he tore their wrappers away. “And hold your nose.”

            Katie Lynn juggled the tasks. “Seems complicated,” she said.

            “The good thing about straws,” Robbie told me, “is they get you drunk quicker. That’s what my science teacher says.”

            I think Robbie was onto something. After my first two sips, I felt very confident and way braver. Was that what being intoxicated was like? Wasn’t too bad. In fact, I figured if I had one more gulp, Imight just  jump up and perform a lively rendition of Dancing Queen. I squinted at the fireplace tools and considered how I might use the fireplace poker as my microphone. No sooner did the idea form in my brain than it was shot all to heck. By ham salad.