My friend said he used to walk by a do-it-yourself carwash everyday on the way to and from school. He was in high school. I think it was the sixties but it could have been the eighties. His age is elusive and carbon dating isn’t giving reliable figures. The setting is small town.
He told me one day he was walking the well-traveled route when something happened. It’s at this point that I get the image of faded jeans worn at the knees. They’ve been worn for at least a week straight, possibly two. The shoes are blue chuck taylors that his mom has tried to throw out more than once. The jacket is leather and lettered, maroon and yellow. His shoulders are slouched, he walks with a hint of shuffle, eyes watching the lines of the sidewalk slide by. He’s definitely skinnier. And with more hair. But the same mind. Even then his thinking is all at once intense, absurd and contemplative.
So this day something happens. His eye is caught by movement in the car wash. He looks up and sees a man washing his car. His far away thoughts recoil in slow motion and the actuality of the situation registers. In a long moment he sees the man’s wide eyes and white hair, one arm held bent in front as if warding off a blow. The other is reaching out and down. His pants are more wet than dry and his sleeveless undershirt is showing through his soaked button up. It’s western styled and light yellow. The moment continues. At the man’s feet the hose is coiled and tense, wand is elevated to the man’s waist but just out reach. Nozzle is aimed his direction. A snake charming gone way wrong.
And the moment of realization comes quickly to completing. Everything springs into motion. The hose wriggles snake-like on the ground and the wand whips erratically. “Hey kid!” A blast of water catches the man in the side of head as reaches. My deep thinking friend is running. The wand scrapes along the passenger door. My friend is bending, reaching now. The wand bounces off the bay wall and hits a window. The sound of metal on glass is sharp and loud.
At this point my friend’s jeans and lettered jacket are wet but the hose is in his hands. Time on the meter runs out. The hose goes limp and the blast becomes an arc and then a dribble.
“Thanks kid. Sorry ‘bout your clothes.” Says the man.
“Welcome sir. Sorry ‘bout your car.” Says my friend.
as i read this it almost seemed like i was there! your use of descriptors and sentence structures made me feel like courtney cox the time she danced with springsteen.
like i was the only one alive in the universe.
keep up the good work birddog.
nice