Fire & Rain
We are tipsy, Lynn and I. Eighteen with no purpose in the hazy summer night.
No direction or motivation to do anything except get a little personal with
Johnny Walker sitting in our cups, sloshing around with cola and ice. The liquid
warms our throats, carbonation tickles our tongues, and ice cools our lips like
mint lip balm. Even the fireflies wink in agreement that tonight is perfect.
“June, do you think your Ma will make pancakes for breakfast? I have a
horrible craving for crisp bacon and pancakes drowning in butter and syrup.”
Lynn licks her lips.
I reply, “It’s Saturday night. Big breakfast every Sunday. Daddy gets the
paper, brings fresh coffee grinds from the market. It’s an explosion of morning
delight.”
Usually Lynn stayed over Fridays. Since we graduated a few weeks ago, she’s
been staying most nights. Ma and Daddy know we drink a bit. Even Lynn’s Daddy
agrees to letting us have some drinks safe at one of our houses rather than
partying somewhere. But that didn’t stop us from going to Tommy Gance’s
graduation shindig a few blocks over. The house was crying beers. Our peers ran
with shirts thrown off, laughter crawling across sweaty faces. Spiked punch
pounded like acid rain onto the turntable, ruining a Jimi Hendrix Album. (The
Gance parents later banished Tommy from listening to any form of music for a
month as punishment.)
Lynn snaps me from a daze and says, “My drink is too strong.”
“No,” I retort. “You are just too weak for Johnny.”
“Let’s go for a ride. I need to sweat some of this off.”
I ask, “Hillside and bridge, as usual?”
She nods. We walk from my porch to the rubble driveway where our bikes lay.
We stand them up like proud soldiers and roll them to the road. I salute my
dim-lit porch as my feet grind pedals and take us on a journey.
It must be ninety degrees out. A hot breeze caresses my cheeks. Lynn rides on
the inside of the road. I let her lead since night rides are her favorite part
of our get-togethers. Her Daddy says her Ma, Laura used to love riding bikes.
She would ride all over the town before cooking supper. When Laura fell ill with
Pneumonia, the bike stayed on the front lawn. She watched it with such longing.
Lynn says her Mama’s last wishes were that the bike saw more days of riding and
to never be left alone to rot.
Lynn keeps it in beautiful shape. Its what connects Lynn to her Ma
spiritually. Laura loved that bike.
We reach Hillside Park but don’t stop. My eyes stick super-glued to shadows
of see-saws and swings. I can hear a distant, three-week younger self in the
background. Of course I want to, Hank. I’m glad we left the party for this.
Just promise me you will love me tomorrow. I was drunk then, too. Tommy’s
party proved useful for a horny boy from my science class two years prior. I was
stupid to say yes, to give in. Somehow I know now that life will still move
forward. One mistake won’t haunt me every time I pass by the park, or go on a
date, or party in the future.
At least I hope it won’t.
Pedals slow to a stop. Lynn and I hop off our bikes and lean them against the
wood of ‘our’ bridge. A river flows beneath us, though the name is never
important enough to remember. In fact, none of the stops we make ever are. The
ride is all that matters. The ride is us, raw and unstressed.
“James?” Lynn asks without looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on water below,
racing to its home on another planet.
Like twins, both of our voices start singing James Taylor’s Fire and
Rain. Neither of us sound anywhere near Cher or Janis Joplin, but no one is
here to judge. The bridge becomes our stage and the water, our cheering
audience.
“I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought
would never end.”
In unison, we continue our melodic trance. My arms raise above my
head, I twirl once. I feel like a child again. My heart is full. Lynn laughs
through a verse while shaking her hips. For moments, I forget the night I lost
my virginity to a nobody. I forget the day the neighborhood watched Laura
collapse to her death on the dirt outside of Makey’s Market. I forget the
tremors in Lynn’s hands as she brush her hand over her Mama’s cold face. For
moments, my Ma and Daddy loved me a little more, and fought a little less.
“Been walking my mind to an easier time, my back turned towards the
sun.”
I notice the sky, bloated with stars. Moonlight fires up hopes
buried in our pupils, exposing them out of hiding. A vulnerability sets in the
air. Lynn forces us to repeat a verse over so we can’t stop yet. Her favorite
verse about turning away from the sun.
“I’m out of breath!” I talk over her singing. She doesn’t listen. She belts
out more words.
I would feel horrible is Mr. James Taylor came around the bend and heard us
massacre one of his finest songs. But I join back in.
Lynn spins me around. I am dizzy with Johnny Walker and cola hurling
fire-cannons in my stomach. I lose track of where I stand. James Taylor is
listening to us somewhere, impressed.
We are drunk, Lynn and I. A set of headlights is alcohol catching up to
me.
I cannot move. Frozen, I am ice clinking in a glass of shock.
My eyes roll in the back of my head as if I am passing out before the contact
is made. I see Ma, Daddy, Lynn in waves of blurred images. I see Hank’s sly
grin, like a cat who finally caught its first mouse.
Lynn screams.
And I see James Taylor on a stage, waving at me. Telling me to come join in
for the remainder of his concert. I just might.
Lord knows, when the cold wind blows, it’ll turn your head
around.
We are tipsy, Lynn and I. Eighteen with no purpose in the hazy summer night.
No direction or motivation to do anything except get a little personal with
Johnny Walker sitting in our cups, sloshing around with cola and ice. The liquid
warms our throats, carbonation tickles our tongues, and ice cools our lips like
mint lip balm. Even the fireflies wink in agreement that tonight is perfect.
“June, do you think your Ma will make pancakes for breakfast? I have a
horrible craving for crisp bacon and pancakes drowning in butter and syrup.”
Lynn licks her lips.
I reply, “It’s Saturday night. Big breakfast every Sunday. Daddy gets the
paper, brings fresh coffee grinds from the market. It’s an explosion of morning
delight.”
Usually Lynn stayed over Fridays. Since we graduated a few weeks ago, she’s
been staying most nights. Ma and Daddy know we drink a bit. Even Lynn’s Daddy
agrees to letting us have some drinks safe at one of our houses rather than
partying somewhere. But that didn’t stop us from going to Tommy Gance’s
graduation shindig a few blocks over. The house was crying beers. Our peers ran
with shirts thrown off, laughter crawling across sweaty faces. Spiked punch
pounded like acid rain onto the turntable, ruining a Jimi Hendrix Album. (The
Gance parents later banished Tommy from listening to any form of music for a
month as punishment.)
Lynn snaps me from a daze and says, “My drink is too strong.”
“No,” I retort. “You are just too weak for Johnny.”
“Let’s go for a ride. I need to sweat some of this off.”
I ask, “Hillside and bridge, as usual?”
She nods. We walk from my porch to the rubble driveway where our bikes lay.
We stand them up like proud soldiers and roll them to the road. I salute my
dim-lit porch as my feet grind pedals and take us on a journey.
It must be ninety degrees out. A hot breeze caresses my cheeks. Lynn rides on
the inside of the road. I let her lead since night rides are her favorite part
of our get-togethers. Her Daddy says her Ma, Laura used to love riding bikes.
She would ride all over the town before cooking supper. When Laura fell ill with
Pneumonia, the bike stayed on the front lawn. She watched it with such longing.
Lynn says her Mama’s last wishes were that the bike saw more days of riding and
to never be left alone to rot.
Lynn keeps it in beautiful shape. Its what connects Lynn to her Ma
spiritually. Laura loved that bike.
We reach Hillside Park but don’t stop. My eyes stick super-glued to shadows
of see-saws and swings. I can hear a distant, three-week younger self in the
background. Of course I want to, Hank. I’m glad we left the party for this.
Just promise me you will love me tomorrow. I was drunk then, too. Tommy’s
party proved useful for a horny boy from my science class two years prior. I was
stupid to say yes, to give in. Somehow I know now that life will still move
forward. One mistake won’t haunt me every time I pass by the park, or go on a
date, or party in the future.
At least I hope it won’t.
Pedals slow to a stop. Lynn and I hop off our bikes and lean them against the
wood of ‘our’ bridge. A river flows beneath us, though the name is never
important enough to remember. In fact, none of the stops we make ever are. The
ride is all that matters. The ride is us, raw and unstressed.
“James?” Lynn asks without looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on water below,
racing to its home on another planet.
Like twins, both of our voices start singing James Taylor’s Fire and
Rain. Neither of us sound anywhere near Cher or Janis Joplin, but no one is
here to judge. The bridge becomes our stage and the water, our cheering
audience.
“I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought
would never end.”
In unison, we continue our melodic trance. My arms raise above my
head, I twirl once. I feel like a child again. My heart is full. Lynn laughs
through a verse while shaking her hips. For moments, I forget the night I lost
my virginity to a nobody. I forget the day the neighborhood watched Laura
collapse to her death on the dirt outside of Makey’s Market. I forget the
tremors in Lynn’s hands as she brush her hand over her Mama’s cold face. For
moments, my Ma and Daddy loved me a little more, and fought a little less.
“Been walking my mind to an easier time, my back turned towards the
sun.”
I notice the sky, bloated with stars. Moonlight fires up hopes
buried in our pupils, exposing them out of hiding. A vulnerability sets in the
air. Lynn forces us to repeat a verse over so we can’t stop yet. Her favorite
verse about turning away from the sun.
“I’m out of breath!” I talk over her singing. She doesn’t listen. She belts
out more words.
I would feel horrible is Mr. James Taylor came around the bend and heard us
massacre one of his finest songs. But I join back in.
Lynn spins me around. I am dizzy with Johnny Walker and cola hurling
fire-cannons in my stomach. I lose track of where I stand. James Taylor is
listening to us somewhere, impressed.
We are drunk, Lynn and I. A set of headlights is alcohol catching up to
me.
I cannot move. Frozen, I am ice clinking in a glass of shock.
My eyes roll in the back of my head as if I am passing out before the contact
is made. I see Ma, Daddy, Lynn in waves of blurred images. I see Hank’s sly
grin, like a cat who finally caught its first mouse.
Lynn screams.
And I see James Taylor on a stage, waving at me. Telling me to come join in
for the remainder of his concert. I just might.
Lord knows, when the cold wind blows, it’ll turn your head
around.