Yellow curb. Means park somewhere else.

Looking for a free lunch, perfect pitch, the holy grail, or a parking spot in front of the courthouse, which for this truck means a 35 foot slot in the lineup.

Not only are they parked on yellow, aCROSS from the sheriff’s office, they hadn’t the decency to close up the gaps. Between every bumper and fender ekes a tantalizing 30 feet, as if they only had so many cars to lock up all the parallel spots so they had to space em out.

Ever since the arraignment for one Charles Haught, middle-aged life drop-out, rapist and murderer of one Wesley Campbridge, seven year-old, ever since every mobile news unit from three surrounding counties had converged and taken up residence in front of Bourbon County Circuit Courthouse, people had ceased fudging the customary ten to fifteen feet of yellow, and now strung all the way across it in the spirit of the old adage about forgiveness and permission.

If Action News 36 can do it, well by George. . .

In my mind I know it’s 9:43 and in my DIAD are 8 uncompleted 10:30 commit stops, two of them bulk, and one of them across town.

Without looking, I sense a looming diesel presence in the fold-out sideview mirror, the same white Ford dualy that’s been dogging me from 10th Street, edging out from behind just enough to make sure I know he wants around.

Knock yourself out, sweetheart. F’you can fit that monster in between my mirror and the half-lane that’s left, you’re more driver than I am. No doubt he thinks he is. More to the point, no doubt he’s been cussin me all the way down Main since I pulled in front of him.

Had to cut somebody off.

Watched twenty cars amble by with that same maddening gap precision. Twenty cars, a minute-and-a-half I ain’t got. The second I nosed out into traffic, he ghosted up to my bumper so close I could see the Ford oval on his grill in my rear camera monitor.

Yeah, now you’re in a hurry.

I can see his mouth moving, so I put words in it. Fool kid, pull out in front of me, and some other words that normally I would never think, were I not forced into providing captions for his thought balloons. It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t feel just a little bit guilty. Guilt pressed in between time and stress oozes out looking like road rage.

A blue Caravan with a bandaged rear window and a bumper just hanging on for dear life pulls away from the curb in front of me, at about the same time the Ford gets the four inches he’s been wanting for ten blocks, and here he comes, loosening the reins of all 350 horses, and billowing acrimony from both 5 inch chrome horns.

The hapless grocery-getter dawdles on out in his lane. He hauls up on the reins, the whistling downshift an automotive curse. If I had time, I’d be laughing. Good thing I don’t. He’s up even with me now, looking right at me, distilling all his frustration with the Caravan and the world in general into the last minute spent staring at the back of a delivery truck. I can see his silent swearing indignance.

He’s a mouth breather. Unfortunate orifice, that. The gaps in between the parked cars should be so wide.
Still, he manages to impart more scorn through his NASCAR shades and the bubbled tint than Estella ever cast down on Pip, Chillingworth on Rev. Dimmesdale, or the parabled Pharisee upon the publican.
Turning my attention to the vast expanse of gleaming yellow curb vacated by the departing Caravan, I cut as close as I can and then back, dimming the luminous paint with my rubbing tires.

The stop I need is half a block back.

Shoving the truck into park, I fall into a habitual series of movements, park, brake, key out, seatbelt off, mirror in, bulkhead door; a succession so varied but seamless, a truly Faulkneresque regimen.
Dodging strategically positioned and scarcely mobile redneck sidewalk ornaments, I finally make it to the intended destination, a lawyer’s office, and pull hard on the door.

It’s locked, and the jolt shakes the glassed-in front wall.

The over-cooked, under-worked (minesweeper?) secretary jerks around so suddenly that her desk chair becomes a tilt-a-whirl, and she steadies herself with a what on earth expression. (oh help, another mouth breather) Sizing up the situation, she then laughs, slaps the desk so hard I can hear it out here, and puts her forehead down on her hand, big shoulders shaking.

9:46.

Odd seconds rush out into eternity while she has a good winding down laugh about how startled she was and how she forgot to unlock that front door again!

She gets up from the chair in hitches and explains the noise over her shoulder to someone in the back room, actually stopping mid-way and, what, turning to raise her voice because they can’t hear her.
When she opens the door, “Oh my land’s sakes, you scared me to death-” throwing her head down and slapping a meaty thigh, and sucking in the next phrase through a hearty laugh “I-I-I thought somebody ran into the building-ing-ing, and and Haley hollered up here and said, ‘What in tarnation is that, did some kid run his bicycle into the front door?’ Ooohhhh, I forgot to unlock it!”

I, am speechless.

Come in.

I would, of course, decline, but it appears she isn’t going to physically accept the package, possible germophobe, but no, she just stuck a pen in her mouth. The packages, including this 2 oz. next-day-air envelope, go on a table in that back room.

The one on the left?

No, down the stairs, to the right, through the gray door.

Returning from the dungeon, I offer her the DIAD to sign.

Oh no, Betty signs for everything.

Betty?

Downstairs, you didn’t see her?

Poor Betty’s been having indigestion all morning, she explains when she emerges from the rest room at 9:52. How fast can you empathize? My foot is one inch from the bottom step of the truck when a voice falls across my tense shoulders like a war club.

Hey, buddy.

Contemplation of feigned deafness tempts me for a second.

Sigh.

Yeah? Turning, sounding relaxed, helpful.

Oh no, it’s Jethro Bodine gone to neglected seed, Santa Clause’s Appalachian counterpart, except I don’t think he’s going to give me anything. The v-necked t-shirt stopped being white shortly after it stopped rying to reach down to the sweat pants. Chest hair, copious and curly, nestles in the plunging neckline. The grace of a beard has been weeded out to a mockery of sweat, oil and tangles. Sixty degrees and sweat beads his forehead and speckles his shirt. He hooks a thumb to the courthouse.
Can you tell me what that says? Over his shoulder my eyes focus on a computer-printed sign taped to the door of the courthouse. Forgot his glasses, I guess.

Hurrying around him, I’m almost there before I realize the print is three inches tall.

Behind me, I hear “I just. . . can’t read.”

Something jams into my spokes, locking up the wheels of time and task and what I call trouble.

Uh, it says the courthouse is closed-ummm, scanning the two lines as if it were fine print-uh, open. . . tomorrow. Turning to face him, Well that’s odd, babbling, wonder why they’re closed, no holiday.

That’s okay, he says.

All right, well have a good one, man.

Sorry-he looks me in the eye-just, can’t read.

Hey, no problem, no problem at all, have a good one, have a good day.

I thank ye’.

You t-no problem, have- we’ll see you.

Delivering next day air, I don’t have time to think about the flush that stains my cheeks, or the lump logging my throat.

natenrae

My mother would repeatedly tell me, “You will belong to me until the day that you get married, and even then, you will belong to me.”

At times I would like when my mom would tell me I was hers–it gave me a sense of belonging. And then there were times when that comment would drive me crazy. Couldn’t she see that we were separate beings? I would fight my mother and say “No, I belong to me.”

So many instances come to mind when thinking of all the times I wanted something so badly and my mother would take it away from me. We were in a constant state of tug a war, and she was always winning; slashing my ideas and rejecting my aspirations. I longed to chew gum like the other kids, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. She would say that I didn’t need the sugar, and that it wasn’t “healthy”. What was healthy? I didn’t understand the meaning of the word. Whatever it meant, I knew one thing, that I did not like it. When I asked why gum wasn’t “healthy”, my mom would say “Stop asking so many questions. It just isn’t.” My mom didn’t like the fact that I asked so many questions. At times I wouldn’t talk at all, because I knew that my mother didn’t like that I talked as much as I did. I didn’t want to upset her.

I loved to play with my two older brothers, Eli and Mark, but they didn’t like to play with me. I was a girl, and wasn’t capable of playing like “a boy”. Mark was especially cruel to me, though he didn’t mean to be. We were a year apart. I looked up to him, and wanted to be around him all of the time. Mark couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want a girl, let alone his little sister, following him around. He used to push me away, but I would insist on staying. I suppose I was stubborn back then. Something about him pushing me away– his not wanting me to be around, made me want to stay all the more, just to stick it to him. It got to the point where Mark would really hurt me, but I continued to endure his abuse. I don’t know why.

One day Mark pushed me off his bed and then up against the wall. He was upset because I had sat on his bed. It wasn’t my fault. My mother had put me there. She had told me not to move, to “stay put” and wait for her to brush my hair. By the time my mom returned, my head was bleeding. It turned out that I needed stitches. My much adored and favorite brother had cracked my head in half. I didn’t inform my mother as to what happened; she would not know that my brother was the one to hurt me until sixteen years after the fact. After the incident I didn’t speak for a month. I don’t remember not talking, but my parents constantly talk about the time when I was four, when I simply refused to speak.

After that episode, I felt that I had changed. A new initiative consumed my thoughts. I came to the realization that I needed a haircut. All the other kids were getting haircuts, and their different hairstyles had made them look unique. I wanted to be unique. I had always wanted a haircut, but my mother refused. My mom tried to convince me into thinking that I didn’t want a haircut, but she couldn’t fool me. She instructed me to take the idea out of my head. My mom said that short hair was ugly—that my idea was “silly”. For the first time, in the memory of my life, a thought took hold of me. I wanted that hair cut and no one would stop me. I was motivated; something about getting that haircut was driving me to get it.

Night after night, I would go to bed and sit up for hours contemplating as to how I would pull it off. I had to figure out the perfect scheme. How would I defy my mother? Who could I ask? I realized that it would not be easy. Everyone I knew–knew my mother. I couldn’t trust them—if any one of them were to snitch on me I would be in big trouble. The trouble part didn’t bother me as much as not having the haircut. If my mother would find out, she would put on end to the haircut, and I would have to bear the consequences—the punishment. Of course, once I had the haircut, I wouldn’t mind getting the punishment—so long as I had successfully gotten it I would be satisfied. I considered giving myself the haircut, but feared that my mother would catch me. In all honesty, I must admit, I wasn’t brave enough to pull it off.

One Sunday morning, while watching Sesame Street with my brothers, I witnessed Bert get a haircut. It looked so simple. The barber cut his hair, Bert brushed himself off—and poof; he had shorter hair. I was fascinated. That was my dream! A haircut. I couldn’t understand what my mother would think was wrong with that. If Bert could get one, why couldn’t I? Bert was well behaved, he never got into trouble, and looked so nice and refreshed after the cut. I turned to my eldest brother, Eli.

I smiled at him, just about as much as I could, and asked him in extraordinarily nice way, “Do you want to give me a haircut? It would look sooooo pretty…”

I stretched the truth a bit. I told Eli that my mother would approve, and that afterwards we could show the cut to her. Eli was a mama’s boy and needed some convincing. After a minute of my maneuvering Eli into thinking that this was the perfect idea, he looked excited, and agreed to cut my hair. He was almost as eager as I was. I searched the house for my mother. I had to be sure that she was out of the premises. My mom was sitting on her bed, she appeared to be relaxed, and was deep in conversation. The timing seemed right. I went into the drawer where my mother kept the scissors. I didn’t know that they were not the correct scissors, because I had never gotten a haircut before. I chose the largest scissors I could find. They were big and black. I figured the bigger the scissor, the better. I ran to give Eli the scissors.

Mark observed the situation. He was jealous that I had asked Eli, and not him. He wanted to be like the barber guy on television. But I couldn’t allow it; Mark was constantly being mean to me. He incessantly hurt me, and would tease me all the time. I wouldn’t give him, the meanest brother in the entire world, the privilege of cutting my hair. The task was too important. It gave me a sort of satisfaction, to turn Mark down. He went off, and I didn’t care—I was happy to be rid of him.

Eli began to cut. He didn’t ask questions, nor did I. The task seemed simple. We didn’t need to discuss it. All he needed to do was take the scissor and cut. I sat there, as Eli chopped off my long hair, feeling so content. My dream was materializing. Eli snipped. I loved the sound of the scissor. I felt so proud. I thought about how I would surprise my mother. She thought that short hair was ugly, but I knew that it wasn’t. My haircut would show her that short hair was beautiful.

It took Eli about a minute or two to finish the cut. When he put the scissors down and looked at me, I knew that my mission had been accomplished. Eli looked at me in awe. He was so proud of his work.

As Eli looked at me with a sense of pride, he said, “Go show Mommy. She will love it!” I felt a little guilty right then, because I knew that Eli wasn’t aware that short hair had been forbidden. He didn’t know how livid my mother was about not cutting my hair. But then, I told myself that it was alright, because once my mom observes my new haircut—she will realize how important getting it really was.

I ran to my mother’s room. As I walked in, I noticed Mark sitting on the bed. Did he try to squeal on me? Mark smiled at me in a sarcastic way. I didn’t care. Now, I needed show my mother my stunning hair. My mom didn’t notice me. She was busy talking to my dad on the phone. My mom never answered me when I called her name, this time wasn’t any different. I would have to get her to notice me.

After standing at the door, for what was about two minutes, I yelled out, “Mommy, look at my beautiful haircut!”
In the matter of seconds, I heard a loud scream come out of my mother’s mouth. “Aaaaaaaahhhh,” she shrilled. The sound still resonates in my ears to this very day. Why was she screaming? I didn’t understand. Mark was laughing. Why was he laughing? I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t comprehend why she was so upset.

Once my mother concluded her screaming tantrum, she informed my father what happened, and hung up. My mom was really angry and was crying. I thought she was being really silly. What was the big deal? What was wrong with getting a haircut? My mom found Eli and yelled at him. She was screaming, crying, and told me that she didn’t know what to do with me. My mother’s reaction made me really upset. I was so excited and proud of my haircut—why wasn’t she. I felt bad for Eli. I had manipulated him into cutting my hair. Because of what he had done, my mother locked him between the apartment door and the outside door. I still feel guilty for getting him into trouble. It had been entirely my fault—but my mother wasn’t listening to our side of the story. And we were all too scared to speak.

My mother made an immediate call to her beauty salon and scheduled an emergency appointment. It turned out that Eli was not as skilled as the barber on Sesame Street. He had cut my hair unevenly; my mother says my hair looked awful. I had long hair, short hair, and many different layers in between. My mother was traumatized by it. Her first born girl had gotten her first haircut–it was my mom’s worst nightmare. For a few months, she refused to take a picture of me; my mom did not wish to keep any memory of the event. I wouldn’t get a haircut after that, for many years to come.

My mom’s memory of that time is still an emotional subject. But I see it differently. When thinking about the episode of my first haircut now, I laugh at what happened. I can remember exactly what I was thinking and how much this haircut meant to me. It sounds ridiculous, and perhaps I was an unusual child, but those thoughts really ran through my head.

Today, I see what I had done then differently, and can interpret my thoughts as a child along with my adult thoughts. The two coincide. At the age of four I was very restricted. I know that most young children are, and for reasons of their own protection, but all of my mother’s restrictions left with me without much to do. I had some time on my hands and decided that I wanted a haircut and was going to get it. As absurd as this may sound, that was the younger me, looking to break free, to inch out somewhat from my mother’s grasp, who wished to play a role in at least one of her own life’s decisions. I wanted so much to do something on my own, and was tired of never being allowed to fulfill my own desires.

I look back at that instance in time and feel a sense of pride. I know that the haircut hurt my mother and got my brother into trouble. The guilt for that still penetrates as well. However, that plot that I carried out, was merely the young me struggling to break out a bit. That four year old wanted to express herself, and she needed to do something that would make a statement, that would communicate to the authority, that she too had an impact on her life. She too, could make a decision. I was not to be pushed aside, my ideas were important; my wants were significant and I was to be taken seriously. My mother learned that the hard way. Instead of humoring me, and allowing me to get a small trim, she tossed my pleading aside, and ignored how significant this haircut was to me.
The struggle that I had with my mom continued for many years. It continues to this day. We still argue, and tug at each other. My mom still says that I will forever belong to her. I have come to accept it. I learned much from my very first defiance of her wishes, and that lesson resonates within me today, and is as follows. Myself and my mother are separate individuals (regardless of how she feels), though separate, what occurs to me affects her deeply. And therefore I must not do anything to any extreme that would flaunt my difference of opinion in her face. Flaunting that I did exactly the opposite of what she wanted hurt her then. I have tried and continue to attempt not to act as overtly defiant or selfish as I had when I was four.

I realized after the haircut that my mom’s restricting me was her way of looking out for me. My mother truly thought that short hair was unattractive on girls, and by not allowing me to cut my hair she initiated me acting out on my own. I was left with short “ugly” hair, a crying mother, a brother in trouble, a father who laughed at me–but who sided with my mother. My other three siblings (including the less than a year old baby) were displeased with me as well, because I had caused so much trouble. All in all, I would say that getting that haircut wasn’t worth it at all. I can see why I did it, and am deeply proud of my early stubbornness, though at the time I was in a real mess. It took me a long time to redeem myself at home. But the memory–being able to look at it in retrospect, and to understand the deeper meaning, makes all the trouble that I had gotten myself into back then worth it. At the age of four, I spoke up, acted as I wished and had been successful at it and that is what will always remain in my memory.

Linda Schwartz

I remember the first time I saw a dead body. It’s burned into my memory forever, I think.

I was walking with my best friend Adam to the local quickie mart. We were eleven years old and the summer was filled with scouring for loose change under sofa cushions and taking our findings to the store to buy candy. On this particular day we were approached by a homeless man before we made it halfway to the store. He was dirty, old, and close enough to death that we could almost see his soul departing his body. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were wide and empty saucers, and his lips were the cool blue color of the summer sky.

“Spare any change?” he barely croaked through toothless gums and cracked lips. I put my hand to the front pocket of my jeans and felt the few quarters, dimes, and nickels that were soon to be exchanged for lollipops, Hershey bars, and a can of Coke. My heart caught in my throat.

I’m not a bad person. I swear I’m not. Most days I would have given the guy all the change I had… But whether it was because I was hungry for sugar or that the man looked like no amount of change would ever turn his luck, I said, “No. Sorry.” And Adam and I walked on.

We got our candy. We got our Coke. We were happy about this.

On the way back home, was saw two police cars with their flashers on and a strip of yellow tape hung between a few trees on the side of the road. We approached cautiously, each of us already knowing what had happened.

In the space of time after we left the man and when we had returned, he had died in the ditch, someone had called the cops, and they were now taking pictures of his body.

We saw him lying face down in the scotch broom and ferns. He was only slightly less alive than when we had seen him before, and one-hundred percent gone.

I’ve never felt so guilty over anything in my life. Even though I know it wouldn’t have helped him survive another day, my giving him all the change I had (a measly dollar something) might have given him some hope at least.

I still lie awake nights and think of him. His black eyes and blue lips will haunt me forever, I think.

Peter