life-nomadicWhisper

American
Sort
tomboy (prose)A tomboy, naturally barefoot, gingerly walks the white painted line because the asphalt is just too burning hot. Scrubby tufts of weedy grass are welcome respites on the way, briefly cooling her steps even if they are stickery. The dirty soles of her now calloused feet were intentionally toughened just before school got out, with mincing steps across the roughest gravel she could find. Her mother accommodates her preference, leaving a pan of water outside for her to scrub her feet before going in. Even then, a black path has gradually appeared leading from the front door in the old orangish carpet. Two months of summer barefoot every day when she had the choice. Keyed roller skates clamped onto last year’s school shoes were the exception. She can flat out run anywhere. / This particular expedition began like every other thing they did, which was *anything* to fend off boredom. She had been sitting on a cement step shaded by an open carport, just three oil-stained parking stalls for three small apartments on the tired poor side of town. There is a little more dirt on the street here, and grass is a little neglected. Just like the children, but these kids prefer that anyway. Two scruffy friends stomp on aluminum cans, brothers sporting matching buzz cuts and cut-off shorts. They are flattening them for the recycling money by the pound, so the carport smells vaguely of stale beer. Another boy attempts to shoot a wandering fly with a home-made rubber band gun; rings cut from a bicycle tube made the best ammo. “What do you want to do?” …”I don’t know, what do *you* want to do?” *Thwack*… The only requisite for friendship here is vicinity, yet it is still true. The idea of choosing friends is about as odd as the concept that one could chose where one lives... Strengths and shortcomings are completely accepted because it is just what it is. / Their amazing three-story tree fort with a side look-out had been heartlessly taken down by the disgruntled property owner last week. Two months of accumulating pilfered and scrap two-by-fours, nails, and even a stack of plywood (gasp!) from area construction sites had yielded supplies for a growing fort. A gang-plank style entry had crossed the ditch to the first level. Nailed ladder steps to the second offered a little more vertigo and a prime spot to hurl acorns. Another ladder up led up to the third floor retreat, with a couch-like seating area and shoulder high walls. A breeze reached the leaves up there. The next tree over was the look-out, with nothing but ladder steps all the way up to where the view opened up out of the ravine. When the wind blew, it gave merciless lessons in facing any fear of heights. But now that was all over, discovered gone overnight.
116
Jul 23, 2013