The Silent Summer
“Corn-dogs and roller skates.”
The novelty of the pseudo nostalgia, the heavy marketing combined with lazily veiled head nods to the socially acceptable version of exploiting the sexuality of youth in public, never quite caught on with him. The obnoxiousness of it is compounded by the focus he is placing in his current thoughts. The thoughts bounce into his mind like the neon fanfare they have been inspired by.
“Cheesey footlong chilidogs and short black shorts.”
Trying to frown through the smile that has crept over his face, he has to admit that it’s easier for him to review and understand the logistics and components, involved in the plan he is trying to work through in his mind, than to articulate the emotions or even dissect the reasoning as to why he is constructing this plan in the first place. He just knows that it's a batch of justice, to be delivered in violence. Savage, yet concise, violence. Calculated and unexpected violence. His violence. There was a very specific moment in which it should have happened already, but didn’t because he wasn’t there to do it.
“I’m here now,” is where he is able to settle his mind as he is also able to push the distraction of his surroundings out of his mind.
Whatever did, or didn’t, happen before, he knows he’s here now. He laughs to himself, thinking about Marty McFly and Poltergeist, at the same time. He’s not exactly sure how to make a flowing picture of the two but knows he is imagining the “now him” reaching through a swirling hole of light and gas to touch that moment in the past that’s currently absent his reach but held tightly in his thoughts. He takes a deep drag on his grape white owl and focuses again as the smoke trails from his relaxed mouth and he closes his eyes as the smoke wafts in a rolling trail from his lips and up into his nostrils. He slowly opens then re-closes his eyes as the smoke swirls in front of the falling lashes, twisting as it extends back and forth, as he slowly leans back into the seat. His thoughts correlate the difference between what he feels, as his back touches the seat he’s in, compared to what he’s used to feeling when he sits back in the driver’s seat. At the same time that he recognizes this, his mind registers the relief and clarity found in “that magical feeling” that begins to emanate from beneath his sternum as he taps it with the tips of his ring and rude finger.
“Cold and creamy ice beverages and the click-clack of thumbs producing coins in exchange for paper.”
He feels light on the surface of his eyelids, and for some reason finds himself thinking about bending rays of light and darkness, “Reflecting, refracting, bouncing, and scurrying”.
He finds himself anticipating the clunk-click of the horizontal white door handle to be pulled and the subsequent pressure shift that is accompanied by a temperature change whenever a car door swings open. He’s startled when the sound he hears is not the sound of the door opening but a sound he can recognize to be the main knuckle of a traffic finger tapping tentatively against glass. He turns towards the sound, on his left, opening his eyes and immediately recognizing trepidation, and the face displaying it, through the driver’s side passenger seat window. He exhales fully, expelling the contents of his lungs, and motions to the face to enter while nodding his own head, up and back, in acknowledgement. He doesn’t even hear the expected clunk-click as Coylito pulls the door open and slides into the driver’s side backseat, quietly pulling the door shut beside him. He sees that Coylito’s eyes are wide, because of the deep green light cast by the stock digital block numbers and letters displayed by the stereo that spins circles of purple telephonics, thick as molasses. He moves his right hand to pass the white owl and Coylito simultaneously raises his right hand and chin while keeping eye contact, intending to pass salutations through slapping dap. Coylito’s hand reaches it’s zenith and has already begun arching downwards and bounces off of the fingers of the hand holding the outstretched token, almost knocking it free. They both freeze in the same moment as they realize the haphazard but well intention-ed execution of greetings. They both chuckle as they settle into a comfortable awkwardness. Coylito’s right hand falls to his lap as his head and eyes tilt back and he chuckles upwards before turning back to lean forward, thumb and pointer finger pressed together reaching out, eyes and cheek corners still raised in an overtly yet comfortable long laugh. He also laughs, completely conscious of his laugh, but genuine in his relief of their mutual awkwardness as he extends the token of peace, gently held with the tips of his thumb and pointer finger.