Dave Brubeck & Me
I have to pee. You know what's weird, though? That I'm only 14, but I know all these swanky old people songs. It makes me quite freaky, and from the inside out. Because when The Whispers come on from some mall radio or something, I can pretend nothing is going on, and nobody will know, but I will know that my whole insides are coming alive and grooving and the words are rolling around inside my head and my throat, and even my organs seem to sway to the beat. Having dysfunctional musical taste as a teenager is a handicap my father foisted upon me. Curse his stylish good taste in music and serious lack of friends when I was young. I was the main buddy to both my parents back in those days.
The snow is starting to come down. I can tell even from inside the coat rack; the air just kind of got muffled, and it's the snow coming down outside. They've been predicting it for days, to the point where I don't think anyone even gives a shit now, just for spite. My stepdad got all worked up the first three days they talked about, stocking up and trips to ACO and dooming all he could foresee to doom. Still, no snow for the past two days. Everyone is like, fuck it now, I think. Hal is just an idiot no matter what, but even regular people are determined not to give the snow the satisfaction of their overdrawn worry now.
Me, I'm glad it's snowing. I hope it snows over everything and nobody can do anything but try not to freeze to death. I would have a distinct advantage then; a shot, at least.
****
Seven people are inside the Salvation Army store when a snow plow runs through the front window, a wall of glass crashing inward on an icy breath. The story was carried nationwide that night and the next day. "Five women and two men died Thanksgiving week in Royal Oak, Michigan." One of the women was Amber's mother. It was a week before Christmas, six weeks after the accident, before anyone asked about Amber.
"I thought Amber Back would have been in before Christmas break," Sharon Camp, Amber's English teacher, said to Mr. Davoy over the covers one afternoon before dinner.
"Has anyone come by to pick up her homework?" He leaned over Sharon to put his Newport Light out in a Flinstones glass half filled with gray water.
"No. I'm thinking of calling her stepfather to see if someone can come by before winter break if Amber's not going to be in." Sharon looked at the top of Davoy's head and reached out for a blackhead in need of release.
"What I hear, it's just the stepdad over there," Mr. Davoy said. "And he doesn't sound like the nurturing type, if you know what I mean." He looked back, up into Sharon's heavy and concentrated face. "Amber's mom was very accident prone, if you know what I mean."
Sharon pushed Davoy away and sat on the edge of the bed. There was only so long the sex margin of softness could drown out his "if you know what I means" and greasy blackheaded head. Sharon had to get out there.
"I have to get out of here, Dave," she said and stood up. "Getting late."
"Yeah, sure is. Feels like I leave for work at night and don't get home until night these days, if you know what I mean. Goddamned daylights saving prime."
The snow is starting to come down. I can tell even from inside the coat rack; the air just kind of got muffled, and it's the snow coming down outside. They've been predicting it for days, to the point where I don't think anyone even gives a shit now, just for spite. My stepdad got all worked up the first three days they talked about, stocking up and trips to ACO and dooming all he could foresee to doom. Still, no snow for the past two days. Everyone is like, fuck it now, I think. Hal is just an idiot no matter what, but even regular people are determined not to give the snow the satisfaction of their overdrawn worry now.
Me, I'm glad it's snowing. I hope it snows over everything and nobody can do anything but try not to freeze to death. I would have a distinct advantage then; a shot, at least.
****
Seven people are inside the Salvation Army store when a snow plow runs through the front window, a wall of glass crashing inward on an icy breath. The story was carried nationwide that night and the next day. "Five women and two men died Thanksgiving week in Royal Oak, Michigan." One of the women was Amber's mother. It was a week before Christmas, six weeks after the accident, before anyone asked about Amber.
"I thought Amber Back would have been in before Christmas break," Sharon Camp, Amber's English teacher, said to Mr. Davoy over the covers one afternoon before dinner.
"Has anyone come by to pick up her homework?" He leaned over Sharon to put his Newport Light out in a Flinstones glass half filled with gray water.
"No. I'm thinking of calling her stepfather to see if someone can come by before winter break if Amber's not going to be in." Sharon looked at the top of Davoy's head and reached out for a blackhead in need of release.
"What I hear, it's just the stepdad over there," Mr. Davoy said. "And he doesn't sound like the nurturing type, if you know what I mean." He looked back, up into Sharon's heavy and concentrated face. "Amber's mom was very accident prone, if you know what I mean."
Sharon pushed Davoy away and sat on the edge of the bed. There was only so long the sex margin of softness could drown out his "if you know what I means" and greasy blackheaded head. Sharon had to get out there.
"I have to get out of here, Dave," she said and stood up. "Getting late."
"Yeah, sure is. Feels like I leave for work at night and don't get home until night these days, if you know what I mean. Goddamned daylights saving prime."
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