I’m mellowing out.
It’s late afternoon, after a decent 14-miler at some sort of pace under 6:45. I’m listening to Danny Elfman’s great band, remembering this grand song played crapily through a cheap pair of duct-taped, wannabe-walkman headphones. I’m in my room; I’m seeing myself through a fog. There I am, dutifully doing my homework, searching my face for new zits, keeping my eyes on the prize: massive over-achievement on a Shock N’ Awe scale, supreme ass kissing, straight A’s, populist elections, subsequent acceptance letters and resultant backslaps. I’m seeing fractions and geometric diagrams–penciled shapes on white, ruled paper slapped together in a burgeoning three-ring binder.
Now…stop the tape. Switch the walkman to Live105.
Dave Wakeling’s singing.
Next subject: English. I reach for a different binder (red this time) and sing along. I write out, in bubbly cursive, the definitions for assigned hard words such as: schmaltz, ennui, and surfeit. I don’t know their meaning and so I reach for my dictionary. I don’t labor much to memorize them; I string some easier words down, to the right of those hard words and tap my foot to the English Beat–to Wakeling’s voice that accompanies this grand exercise in block-checking.
Homework’s done and so that means it’s time to go skateboarding. Wait, Commodore-64 first–gotta punch the fat green dude…gotta kick the ninja…gotta grab the lantern. There.
The computer gets turned off, the chair: never pushed in. The door: left halfway open. My mom’s on the phone in the living room–a gigantic serpentine cord twists around the corner of the kitchen. She sits with her apron on and waves to me,whispering when dinner will be. I’ve got my shred glove on; it was once a protective gardening gauntlet; it’s now got a truck’s riser stuck to it, care of a healthy dose of glue from my father’s hot glue gun.
The house door closes hard, making the Windsor chimes from the broken doorbell peal ever so slightly. My mom’s still on the phone. I stay in the house watching her talk to someone while I observe my shadow flicker past the olive tree in the front lawn. The skateboard’s hardened wheels click and clack as they ride over the rubberized cracks in the sidewalk.
The house now grows silent; the fog lifts; the songs are over and the memory fades.