Write On Prompt - We Don't Start Until 9

 

Note: We've been studying and discussing personal essays the last couple months at Write On. Last night we had our first Writing Workout session, where we each spent some time on first drafts of essays. I have always wanted to do an essay or maybe even a book on the different work environments I've experienced. I want to ground these experiences in the history of the business or industry, as way to expand the relevance. This is a start of a segmented essay about my time spent at a local factory. 

Illinois Route 2 runs north to south hugging the Rock River in central northern Illinois from its origin in Sterling then running northeast to Dixon and Oregon and Byron to Rockford before shooting straight north to the Wisconsin border. Between Sterling and Dixon is a four-lane, 12-mile stretch, featuring a golf course, crop land, a community college, a trailer park, and a smattering of houses and subdivisions. I meet this stretch each morning just south of Dixon at the crest of hill where the speed limit descends from 65 to 40 and finally 30 within city limits.

One morning recently, while on the way to my current gig in my orange Jeep Renegade with some rock and roll song blaring, the mangled remains of a deer appeared in the median, likely struck the previous night by some vehicle still cruising near the high end of the speed limits. There were probably excited calls made by the driver, to family, maybe to the police, or a wrecker, to their insurance agent. Maybe the car was drivable. Maybe not. Life for that person was temporarily complicated.

Life for that deer was smacked from its body. Its limbs were strewn like the discarded toys of some toddler atop a torso twisted like a broken slinky. Its blood splattered, turning the blacktop into some sort of bleak tapestry.

And I thought of two deer from almost twenty years earlier. A doe and her fawn, wandering across the back of the parking lot at National Manufacturing at one in the morning. Their sleek bodies propped on those twig legs. The mother leading, her head swiveling back every few moments to make sure her offspring was following close enough.

I was on break – from college for the summer and from work as part of the third shift replenishing crew for the shipping department of the hardware manufacturer. There were five or six of us on the crew, including my best friend, Jake. We were sitting on the tailgates of our pickup trucks, like a country song, eating snacks and maybe mumbling about things that no longer matter.

I was nineteen, filled with angst and hormones and caffeine, watching the most basic of instincts enacted across the lot. Animals moving under the orange glare of parking lot lights, when most humans were asleep. Searching for food, for water, for shelter. A mother watching over her child. A child tethered to its parent, grasping tightly while reaching away. I don’t remember anything else that was running between my ears. I just knew I’d remember that moment. A man at rest watching the natural movements of nature.

After passing the destroyed body of the deer twenty years later, I wondered if that animal was a descendant of those two. It’s not even 10 miles as the crow flies from National parking lot along Route 30 east of Rock Falls to that place on Route 2 south of Dixon. Certainly, deer herds travel that far, and they are territorial enough, that it’s possible that the deer which met such a violent end shared a strand or two of DNA with the two from that serene memory of mine.

It’s a twenty-plus year gap between these episodes of creation and destruction. Twenty years and half of a lifetime.

***

National Manufacturing was born in October of 1901, when three men bought a two-story wagon factory in Sterling. By the end of the month they had named their business, one that would remain in the area known as the Sauk Valley for 110 years.

In 1901, the United States was comprised of about 76 million people, and the world’s population was 1.6 billion. The country was reeling from the assassination of President William McKinley in September. He was the third president killed in office since the end of the Civil War, and with his death, the secret service was born and Teddy Roosevelt assumed power.

Workers across the country were fighting for better pay. Women wanted to vote. And nobody knew that in the forty years to follow there would be two world wars sandwiched around a crippling economic depression.

***

I wasn’t even a week out of high school when I shuffled bleary-eyed at 6 AM for my first shift as part of the 100th anniversary paint crew in the Summer of 2000. I likely wore jeans, some T-shirt, and a pair of steel-toed work boots.

Jake’s mom worked in the accounting department at National, and that’s how we landed the gig, which paid pretty well for a couple of eighteen-year-old kids. Never hurts to know someone. It’s probably why we were also assigned together to paint the waste treatment tanks first at the Sterling plant and then the Rock Falls plant. Sterling and Rock Falls are twin cities separated by the Rock River and during the 1900s became one of the major steel producers in the country. That’s over now, of course, gone the way of two-story wagon factories, thriving family-owned businesses, and William McKinley.

The waste treatment plant in Sterling was separated from the production plant by a row of parking and a lane to get in and out. The treatment plant was located along a river.

We clocked in just inside the production plant and met our first supervisor there. His name was Chris, a middle-aged man who carried a Chicago Tribune under his arm and a frown on his face. He led us toward the treatment plant, stopping at a bench just outside of the building where two men were sitting. The interaction was brief, and I can’t picture what either man looked like, but I remember what happened.

One man stood up, dangling something from his hand. A snack maybe. Or perhaps a cigarette, and he introduced the man next to him in this way.

“This is the resident fag,” he said. Then he threw whatever was in his hand several feet away, and told the man to go get it. The other man did, his shoulders slumped as he slinked toward it like a trained dog. “Just look at him.”

Chris rolled his eyes, and we kept moving.

The waste treatment building was a metal shed with huge green tanks with metal stairs and cat walks running between them. Chris continued past them, between two tanks on the ground level that led to his office, which consisted of a desk with a light and a window that looked over the river. He dropped into his seat, handing each of us a section of the newspaper.

“We don’t do anything out here until after 9.”

Within ten minutes, we witnessed pretty much everything we were told not to do by Human Resources at our orientation.

 

 

Write On Prompt: The Old Church Piano

 

Note: Last night at Write On, we read a story from the point of view of a scarecrow. After our discussion, we had free writing time where we each accepted the challenge of writing from the perspective of something not human. This is pretty rough, but an interesting idea.

 

 My creator was named Frederick. He had thick, stubby fingers, a mustache and soft brown eyes I think were carved from the same tree as much of my body.

He pieced me together with glue and finishing nails, gently placed my soundboard, tightened the strings, and aligned the ivory keys. He hummed while he worked, the sort of German hymns preferred by Martin Luther, using his voice to tune my heart. I loved him so.

I suppose he was my father and mother, things I wouldn't have understood at the time. He was my creator, and I was just his creation.

I remember little else about him.

***

I was loaded on a truck, cast away from creator after all my keys were place, all my strings tuned, all the little felt hammers ready to strike so that I could sing.

Wrapped in bedding and towels and a huge tarp, every bump hurt me, altered me.

It was dark for a long time.

***

Then there was a ship and water, and there were rats on the boat. One lived briefly under my feet. It's tiny heartbeat reverberating in the grains of wood of my body.

If I could play myself, such a tune would that have inspired.

***

Back on a truck. More hurting.

***

Home became a small room off a Lutheran sanctuary in some little town in Illinois. The floors were cold, the ceilings high, and occasionally a little mouse would tap across my keys at night.

Ms. Joy Parnuckle played me then. Her arthritic fingers unevenly pressing my keys, the hammers falling at imprecise times, my tune garbled, yet the children sang along. There round faces beaming at Ms. Parnuckle, mouths open, tongues clicking, their voices fluttering about the pitch and tone intended.

It wasn't the best playing of my life, but it was joyful.

***

Sometimes young Howard Edgecliffe would sneak into my home. Sit at the bench before me and something exhilarating followed. His long fingers with soft pads would glide across me, knowing just where and when to strike.

Oh, the sound. He played without music, sometimes I think he played without knowing what song would come out. Music flowed through him like sun rays through a stained-glass window, casting brilliant shades of color in every direction.

I wanted to tell him about the mouse on the ship because I knew he would understand. I knew he would play the sound of life in that little heartbeat.

***

Howard grew older, moved away for a time, and when he returned, he was changed. A scar ruined one side of his face, and his hands. Oh, his hands. They shook violently, so much so, that my strings vibrated when he came near.

But he never played me again. Never even touched me.

***

Ms. Parnuckle gave way to Helen Lampkin, a nervous young girl, who played adequately but with no real emotion. Even so, she gave lessons twice a week to unruly children, who pounded my keys and would carve their initials into my body whenever she left the room.

Those carvings still burn. They almost burn as much as losing Howard.

***

Helen Lampkin was there a long time, growing from a nervous young girl to a strained woman with a burly husband and half-witted children. Fewer children took lessons. Fewer children came to the church on Sundays.

***

After Helen, there was a procession of young mothers. None of them played. Instead, they set a plastic tape player atop me, pushed a button, and mechanical hymns sounded out. The children's voices repeated, their voices sounding like machines, too.

My strings sagged, my keys yellowed, and a chill settled in my body.

***

No one comes in my little room anymore. My keys are covered. My body is chipped and dried. There’s ancient bubblegum decaying on my backside. The old men snicker about firewood when they see me.

I wonder what my creator would think if he saw me now.

Collins Writing Conference: Poem - That Baby Crying...

 

Note: This is another poem that I generated during Collins Writing Conference poetry workshop. The prompt was to write a five-line poem where each line could be a separate poem. The five lines also should represent the world, or your world, or both. So, of course, I included a musical reference. The rest was just stuff that came off the top of my head. 

This is what I wrote in class. 

That baby crying will never stop.
Perhaps the tree heard its friend fall.
When was the last time I did something for the first time?
Paul Simon sang about the moon rising over an empty field.
It is quiet here.

Since then, I have added three more stanzas found below. 

That baby crying will never stop.
Perhaps the wind has no answers.
When was the first time I did something for the last time?
Neil Young sang give me things that don’t get lost.
It is loud here.

That baby crying will never stop.
Perhaps the sun doesn’t care to rise.
How many more times will I have to do this?
James Taylor sang about sunny days that he thought would never end. 
It is hot here.

That baby crying will never stop.
Perhaps the bird sings for no one.
How much time do I have left?
Bob Dylan sang behind every beautiful thing there’s some kind of pain.
It is cold here.

Collins Writing Conference: Short Fiction - Scope of Work

 Note: The short fiction workshop at the Collins Writing Conference was focused on stories that pretend to be other things. This is where the writer utilizes some sort of format like a list or calendar or a How-To Guide to tell a story. We studied examples of this and then prepared one of our own to be workshopped. My story is told using the scope-of-work format I use in my day job as a proposal writer. Basically, this is the outline we create stating what we are going to do on a job. Instead of writing a proposal for surveying or engineering job, this is a scope of work for a first date. I think it almost turned into a choose your own adventure type of story. The formatting what a bit of a challenge in the blog text box, so hopefully you get the idea. 

Scope of Work

Project name: Anderson-Lamb First Date                          Date: June 28, 2024

Project Number: 24002                                                       Revised Date:

Project Description: Mr. Anderson and Ms. Lamb agree to an evening that includes moderately priced cuisine and beverages, a mutually agreed upon public activity, and a concluding moment that may include one or all of the following: ice cream, walking next to a body of water, and/or limited consensual physical contact in a well-lit exterior location within earshot of other humans.

Project Location: Downtown Jordan, within walking distance of the community theater, bowling alley, and three dining locations meeting the couples’ economic requirements.

Project Limits: One evening, an evening consisting of the time between 7 P.M. and midnight. Any activities beyond that will require additional scope and budget.

Proposal Assumptions

1. Attire is assumed to be casual, although, Mr. Anderson will insist on tucking in his shirt and wearing dark socks with his sandals, and Ms. Lamb will spend more money on a summer dress that she’ll never wear again than Mr. Anderson will on the meal.
2. Mr. Anderson will arrive at Ms. Lamb’s apartment at 7 PM, and they will walk three blocks to the downtown area.
3. Mr. Anderson will buy a single carnation at the local grocer and not formally give it to Ms. Lamb until it’s too late for her leave it at her place, forcing her to carry it the entire night.
4. Mr. Anderson will say nothing remotely funny, but Ms. Lamb will laugh thirty-two times.
5. Ms. Lamb will go into great detail on her Schnauzer’s inflamed anal glands.
6. Mr. Anderson will return Ms. Lamb to her apartment door.

Proposed Tasks

1. Greeting
1. “Hello” is customary.
2. Mr. Anderson will say “How’s it going?”
3. Ms. Lamb won’t actually answer, but murmur “Cool” and then giggle for an awkward period of time. 
2. Dinner
1. Options:
1. Mama’s Pizzeria – third-generation family-owned restaurant known for greasy pizza and a broken ice machine.
2. Salamanders – authentic Mexican cuisine with the average dining experience of 17 minutes.
3. Duffy’s Bar & Grill – there’s no gum on your shoe, but still, it sticks to the floor.
4. Mr. Anderson will order a gigantic-portioned entrée which he will eat entirely thinking it will impress Ms. Lamb.
5. Ms. Lamb will spill a dark-colored salad dressing, enchilada red sauce or ketchup down the front of her dress that she’ll always see no matter the stain-fighting precautions she takes.
3. Post-Dinner Activity
1. Options:
1. Lucky Strikes Bowling Alley – half the lanes will be occupied by the Friday night’s lady bowling league.
1. The ball will stick on Mr. Anderson’s thumb on his first throw, causing the blue orb to glide majestically through the air and thud dramatically on the oiled lane. All the ladies in the league will stop and frown at him.
2. Ms. Lamb carries a 230 average and will beat Mr. Anderson’s score by at least a hundred pins. She’ll be asked to join three teams before they leave.
2. The Bard’s Barn – local community theater currently performing their modern take on Hamlet set on a rural Nebraska farm. Rather than concluding with the death of the main character and many others, it ends with Hamlet and Ophelia winning a square-dancing competition.
3. Forgo the above for walking the town square since it’s such a nice evening
1. The town square takes approximately 12 minutes to walk. Mr. Anderson and Ms. Lamb will traverse the distance 23 times.
2. The sensitive skin of Mr. Anderson’s heels will blister in four places. 
4. Concluding Moment
1. Options:
1. Ice Cream at the Dairy Mart.
1. Mr. Anderson orders a banana split that he offers to share.
2. Ms. Lamb doesn’t like bananas.
2. Walking next to a body of water
1. The nearest body of water is the ravine that runs along sixth street. It smells like rotting fish despite the absence of marine life.
3. Consensual physical contact in exterior location within earshot of other humans.
1. A sturdy handshake at Ms. Lamb’s door where Mr. Anderson squeezes too hard to compensate for his bowling loss.
2. A friendly hug where Mr. Anderson hopes that whatever Ms. Lamb spilled on her dress doesn’t transfer to his shirt.
3. A brief kiss, lips closed, eyes open, with each wondering if the other will propose a second project.

Deliverables

1. One wilting pink carnation
2. One stained summer dress
3. Four blisters on heels.
4. One bruised ego from being defeated at bowling by 100 pins.
5. The hope of happily-ever-after balanced by the despair of nevermore with the statistically probable outcome of something in between.

Collins Writing Conference: Poem - A Star in Hiding

 Note: I'm apologize for being gone for so long. The reasons are many, but most of the reasons aren't that interesting or unique, so I won't bore you with them. It's time to get back on the horse. A while back I won free registration to the Collins Writing Conference in Rock Island, hosted by the Midwest Writing Center. Last week, I attended that conference, which among other things, consisted of 3 days workshops. There were four workshops each day, each covering a different genre (short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and novel editing). I took all four. I thought I'd share some of the work I generated in the workshop here. 

This first piece was generated in the Poetry workshop: Obscured Environments with the instructor Sara Lupita Olivares. The prompt for this piece was to pick one of two pieces of art shown (or you could relate to both, but I only picked one). The poem was to focus on what we thought was the center (metaphorical more so than physical center) of the painting. We were to avoid using the word "I" until the last line (or not at all, as I did). We were to start the poem with the phrase, "It wasn't that..." and the last line with "Underneath,"

The painting I chose is "Thistles" by John Singer Sargent. An image of that is below. My eyes focused on the bright spot near the middle in the bottom third of the painting. Below the image is the poem I generated. 

 A Star in Hiding

It wasn’t that the star was dying in the thicket
It was simply hiding
Tired of the soundless ether
It tucked into the tangled bramble,
Scared not of sharp fingers or dark corners, but
Glad for the respite from the exposed scrutiny of space.
Here things blew and howled.
Here things shivered and cowered.
Here things are and were.
Underneath the thicket, this star is dying.

Write-On Prompt: The Boy Behind the Fence

 

Note: Last night was prompt night at Write On. The prompt I chose was to write a spooky story to tell around a campfire. I was a bit low on inspiration and built off a scene painted on the wall at Harvest Time. The scene is shown in the picture. Thanks for reading.  

 

Mia’s steps fell in an even pattern that made it feel like her journey had backing percussion complete with the consistent shake of maracas with the way the gravel crunched under her Nikes. She hummed Taylor Swift songs and daydreamed about Justin Bieber. A truck passed, an old Dodge, probably from the 40s, so small that Mia thought the monster-sized extended-cab Ford that her dad drove probably could eat it. She imagined a huge mouth opening in the grill of her dad’s truck between the headlights with long shiny chrome teeth pointed razor sharp and dripping with motor oil gnashing down on the little old Dodge, the metal twisting and glass shattering like a scream. 

 

“You’re twisted,” Mia’s friend Kate would have said if she heard Mia’s thoughts. 

 

Mia wished Kate were with her, heck she wished anyone was with her, even her little brother Tommy. This long walk through the country had been a challenge placed in front of her by her mother. 

 

“You sit around too much staring at some screen with those damn things in your ears,” her mother said just an hour earlier. “Go for a walk, it’s a nice day.” 

 

“Fine,” Mia decided to shut her mother up and walked right out of the house. Her family lived miles from anything remotely considered a town, so even after an hour, she was still definitely in the middle of nowhere. She had turned right on her road at the end of their lane, then cut across Mr. Stern’s pasture, stopping to pet his gelding, something she did on a daily basis anyways. Then she discovered a winding dirt path that cut between a thicket of trees before finding this long gravel road. To be truthful, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was. She thought she could turn around and find her way home, but something kept her feet moving forward. Yes, it would be nice to have someone beside her saying, “Hey, let’s go back.” 

 

Ahead she could see that that the road came to a dead end at a white fence. In the middle was a gate, and beside the gate was a lamp post. 

 

“That’s weird,” she said aloud just to hear a voice, even if it was her own. “You don’t see a lot of lampposts in the middle of the country.”

 

Hanging from the lamp post was a sign, on it in plain black letters was 623 Roman Road. Beyond the fence there was nothing. Not a house. Or a Trailer. The only signs of life were an old red bike leaning against the fence with flat tires and a cardinal sitting atop one of the posts. Everything about the scene was so still that if she were in a museum, she would have thought it a painting with purple and red wildflowers growing over the bottom cross beam of the fence for a splash of color. 

 

“Kind of a stupid place for such a nice fence,” she said. She looked beyond and she could make out fields and trees, but it all appeared a little distorted, kind of like when she put on her prescription glasses on while already wearing her contacts. 

 

“HELLO!” She called, hearing the echo that came from the other side. 

 

She touched the gate’s handle, but couldn’t muster the courage to open it. It’d be trespassing, after all. She wasn’t a goodie, goodie, but she knew better than to just waltz onto someone else’s property. Country folk owned guns and they know how to use them. That was her dad’s voice in her head. Barf. 

 

“This is silly.” She spun around, took two steps then nearly jumped out of her skin when the voice called from behind.

 

“Hello.”  

 

It was a boy, maybe a year or two older than her, wearing bibs and a straw hat. The skin below the denim was tanned a golden brown, his eyes were the same color, and his lips had just the right amount mischief in their curl. She felt herself blush even as she registered that something about him wasn’t right. 

 

“Hi.” She responded trying to pinpoint what it was about him. 

 

“I’m Puck,” he said. “Like in the Shakespeare play.” 

 

She had no idea what he was talking about, but the teenage girl in her couldn’t believe this dreamboat was talking to her. She chased that nonsense out of her head. What was wrong here? 

 

“I’m Mia.” 

 

“I like that name,” he grinned. “You want to come on this side of the fence.” 

 

“What’s on that side?”

 

He grinned wider. 

 

“Well, me, for one.” And as if gravity were contributing to his cause, the strap of his bibs fell down his arm, revealing more of his muscular shoulder. She heard her voice agreeing but her brain was numbed studying his smooth skin. 

 

“All you have to do is open the gate,” he said. 

“Can’t you?”

 

“No, no, you have to open it. That’s the rules.” 

 

“The rules?” her hand was on the cold metal of the gate latch again. “What rules.” 

 

He grinned but didn’t answer. This close to him, she noticed how flat he seemed, like he didn’t have any dimensions. How could that be? She wanted to touch his face, feel his arms, they were like the oil paintings on her parent’s wall. So vibrant, so real, but yet not quite. 

 

She pushed on the gate, her eyes lost in his, but as she did, she felt a tug on her finger tips, like someone was pulling her fingers. A pit fell in her stomach, and she thought about the bike with the flat tires. That had been someone else’s bike, and someone else had found this fence and this gate and was seduced into opening it, and never came out. All that’s left of them is that bike.

 

“No,” she whispered, pulling the gate shut. 

 

Fire burned behind Puck’s eyes. A brilliant flash, like a supernova. She fell backwards, as his skin melted away revealing a hideous green and purple beast with two heads with forked tongues. She hit the gravel, her head bouncing of the hard stone, and everything went dark. 

 

Something wet crossed her face, and she lunged upward, meeting the eyes of the beast: Mr. Stern’s gelding, its tongue drooping from its mouth. She was beneath a tree in the pasture. Clearly, she had fell asleep instead of walking on. It had all been a dream. When she stood, she thought she saw the white fence in the distance, but she didn’t look twice. Instead, she ran home. Staring at a screen was ten times safer than walking in her neighborhood. 

Write-On Prompt: Just One Ride

 Note: It was prompt night last night at Write On, and we had five options to pick from. Because I never do anything easy, I tried to tackle three. Two of them dealt with conveying emotions through body language and dialogue. Not sure I hit the mark with that, but hoped the slumping and banter conveyed a desire on both sides of the conversation. The third was to write a story with an open ending. That I did. Let me know what you think Mary did after Roger opened the passenger door.

 Up and down Locust Avenue, the street lights blinked to life as the sun fell behind the line of trees to the west. It wasn’t dark enough for the orange glow from the bulbs to be noticeable to anyone other than Roger, and he only noticed because he was slumped against his rusty ’78 Camaro and had nothing better to do than watch lights turn on. The Camaro’s original color had been apple red, until someone, probably in the 1990s had decided to make it silver. Except they clearly hadn’t known how to paint a car, as the silver now was flaking off, revealing the red, and in spots, rusty flesh below. Roger wanted to sand off the silver completely, restore the original sheen, and revel in all its muscle car glory. He wanted to turn the stereo on loud, have the speakers shake in their casings, and listen to Ozzy, or ACDC, or maybe even Motely Crue. He wanted a great many things, instead he was slumped against the passenger’s side door waiting. Always waiting for time to do things like that. For money to upgrade the engine. Most of all, he waited for Mary Scott to come down those porch steps.

His dark bangs fell before his even darker eyes, and he didn’t bother to brush them away. His shirt was cutoff at the shoulder on purpose, the three tears in other places weren’t. His skin was tanned to his rotator cuff, but a creamy white for the rest of his torso, and blotches of grease spotted all of him. Some still wet, other so dried to his skin and clothing that the only way they’d ever be removed was with fire.

“You can stand there all night,” Mary called from the porch, her pale summer dress dancing in an invisible breeze. A radio played somewhere, maybe even a block over. The song was an oldie, one where the guy could smoothly hit the high notes and make you believe in things like love and peace and happy-ever-afters.

“Maybe I will.” Roger shrugged, reached into the car and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and his Zippo.

“My dad will come out and slug you if he hears you been smoking in front of his house.” Mary had her blonde hair tied back with a golden bow. He liked it better when she let her locks spill to her shoulders.

“Then, you just go in and tell him that Roger Hirsh is going to smoke a whole pack of reds at his curb unless his daughter comes down here and gets in the front seat of this mighty fine automobile.”

“It’s an old beater,” She glanced at the screen door behind her. He wondered if she’d ever get the courage to either rat him out to her pa or come scrambling down to him to see what it meant to really let her hair loose.

“It’s a classic.” He lit the cigarette, nodded his head back and let gravity move his bangs from in front of his eyes to their proper place atop his head.

Mary crossed her arms and planted her feet. Since meeting three weeks earlier, they had done this dance almost nightly. He rumbled down her block fifteen minutes after getting off at the garage, parked in front of the house, and waited for her to accept his invitation for a quick ride, just a couple swings around the block was all he was asking, and each night she refused, remaining in purgatory on the porch until Roger’s stomach growled so much that he had to retreat to the nearest fast-food joint.

“Your nothing but a grease monkey,” Mary stuck her tongue out. “I’m going to college in a month.”

He grinned. College girls, always hiding behind their books and their intentions. Just wait ten years doll, when your tire pops on that station wagon, and your preppy frat boy has to call a service to get it fixed, he thought. Roger would have it off and fixed in two shakes while you and frat boy will be sitting beside the road for three hours. Well, he wasn’t going to wait ten years for her to figure it out. He was tired of waiting for the good things to come his way. He didn’t know what it was, but something about this Mary seemed good to him. Real good, and he wasn’t going to give up just because she couldn’t envision the benefits of dating a fella that was good with his hands.

“I tell you what, you ride once around this block, just once, and if you don’t like it, I’ll leave you alone forever.” He said, dropping the stub of his cigarette and grinding it down with the heel of his boot. “Just once.” He held up a single finger.

She snorted. Behind him, the street appeared orange under the lights as the sun dipped lower and the shadows grew longer. A lot of stories – a lot of good stories – have started under such lights with the wind whipping past open windows and music blasting on the stereo.

He opened the passenger door and waved for her to come, hoping that his wait was over.