Jun. 19, 2003 - 12:28 p.m.
Dear Vincent,
I slipped into the bookstore yesterday to close myself off from the madness that is this small town in the summer. The girls in their tank tops and shorts that could well double as bikini bottoms... and it wouldn't be small town savvy if they didn't let their bras peep from beneath their tops. Purses strung from spindly shoulders which would otherwise shrink from the touch of anything in this humidity.
Boys, who drive their cars in pairs with their windows yawning and the bass pounding. And all the while they nod their heads to the beat, but don't look at each other to have a conversation. Mothers trailing children around town to do errands. One child balanced sullenly on her hip as she scolds the other two for bickering. The temporary and instinctive panic that momentarily arises when they cross the street. So that her arm flies out with a will of its own and she seizes the child's arm snapping, "Give me your hand!" The old men sitting slumped on benches topped off by plaid hats, melting steadily into long trousers and sweaters which they cannot seem to forsake even during the warmest weather. Waiting for their respective old women who amble about the stores only to shuffle out several hours later with nothing more than they went in with. Perhaps it is because of their absurdly oversized handbags that they stoop so. And of course, there are the kids in the neighborhood. Who have quite successfully forgotten that time passes.
Only lunchtime, when the mothers appear indomitably in doorways to shout for their children, distinguishes that the morning has fled and the afternoon commenced. And nothing but bruises and scabs that heal beneath dinosaur band aids prove that each day is new, and not just the previous day re lived.
It's all the circulation, captivation and calamity of summer. But the rotations seem to have taken on a slightly ridiculous quality, as there is no sun. Just clouds and rain. The girls in their tank tops, and boys in their cars, and old men in their hats seem to be acting in a play without any lights, or scenery or soundtrack. It's more like summer is being mimed around here than lived. There was an anticipation in May. A hankering for summer and change. What is it about summer that we all expect our lives to take on new more dramatic and adventurous dimensions? So when only a shade of summer arrives, you find yourself glancing perplexedly about for something more potent.
I spent some time in the bookstore watching an elderly woman with the most palpable sense of dignity. Her hair was deep gray and she wore a blazer and tea length skirt to match. She carried herself completely straight walking briskly, if not hurried. There was no bob to her walk, all glide with the inside of her ankles offered daintily forward. She looked like the type of woman who could and would fell you with a look of steely disapproval. But she absolutely held herself like a goddess.
I am tremendously fond of the women I kick box with. Interestingly enough, most of them, mothers, have become very motherly towards me. This Tuesday I went to class feeling poorly and towards the end of class I was gripped by a bit of nausea. Wincing and wrapping my arms around my stomach, Martha asked, "Sweetheart are you okay?" "I'm fine" I responded, "just a stomach ache." Martha looked at me dubiously as did the other women. "Here sweetheart," she said, advancing on me, "let me feel your forehead." Pressing her hand to my forehead she stepped back and said pensively, "hmmmm." "Wait" said Laura, "let me feel." Before I knew what was happening all the mothers in the room were feeling my forehead and conversing. "She does fell awfully warm..."murmured one. The other women agreed. Martha said, "Sweetheart, you feel so warm, you probably have a fever." I didn't have the heart to tell those lovely women, that after kick boxing for forty five minutes, more likely than not, I would be warm.
Yesterday, I listened to a woman mispronounce Fidel Castro and Peace Corps. Fidel Castro was 'fee-dale cah-stro', and Peace Corps was 'Peace Corpse.'
Summer and I are combustible. I keep waiting for things to explode.
Dented and Bent out of Shape,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
