Excerpt from Serita's Shelf Life (Forthcoming)
Normally
I wouldn't take the Vespa out on North Central Expressway. Wouldn't push to its
top speed of fifty-nine mph, challenging the drunks and lovers who careen the
highways at 2:00 a.m. Normally. Tonight they pass on my left and right, swaying
my scooter in their vortexes.
Two
sets of headlights approach from behind like my Vespa stands still. One flashes
its brights, and the one in my lane signals, changing lanes at the last second.
They pass simultaneously, eighteen wheelers racing for the Oklahoma border and
a payday. The force of their passing wobbles my lovely Portofino Green Vespa,
and my armpits sweat painfully the way my taste buds hurt when I look at
pineapple upside down cake. For that second, whatever it is that haunts me poofs, and I breathe deeply with the joy
of survival. Then it's there again. A void.
I'll
take side streets through nice neighborhoods toward home. I'll smell the lush
plants of late summer while they take a breather from the scalding daytime
heat.
"Speed
and highways and death-by-scooter aren't what I'm looking for." The wind
sucks the words away. Tears moisten both cheeks, and it all feels right. I tend
to cry now--the intensity of emotion, both joy and despair, flies at me hard
these days without the meds. Calm greets me only in passing from high to low
and back again.
And
I don't sleep. I don't need to. But I already said that.
Hillcrest
Street is deserted at this hour, so Vespa and I cruise, knowing sleep won't
come before work, in what? Four hours? The purring of my powerful scooter
soothes me like a baby nodding in her car seat, but I'm not sleepy. If
anything, I'm hyper-alert. A rustle of shrubbery or the slinking of a cat
across a darkened porch distracts me.
The
marvel of no longer taking poison elates me. I'm laughing out loud as the Vespa
glides to a stop at Royal Lane where broad oaks canopy two of four lanes on
this southbound side. It's for that sole reason I don't run the red light on
the desolate street. The spreading trees, a pungent fragrance, are so lovely.
A
car pulls up beside me.
"Oh,
you really should roll down your window to smell this," I tell the
surprised driver. I pantomime rolling down an old fashioned car window. I
dazzle a smile.
He
runs the red light. Me, too.
Traffic
lights must be on timers this late at night because the light turns red as we
approach Northaven Road. Another car waits to cross at the intersection. The
driver beside me looks over expectantly, cautiously as if I, middle-aged Amazon
woman, might carjack him.
I
throw my head back and laugh as hard as I've laughed in years.
His
window is down when we meet up again at Walnut Hill Lane. Country music plays
soft and dreamy--a woman's high voice.
"See?"
I say. "Isn't that better?"
The
man nods his five o'clock shadow. "Where are you going at this godforsaken
hour?" says his deep voice. Very deep. Radio announcer deep.
"I'm
in search of… je ne sait quoi,
Hon." The sky toward Presbyterian Hospital blocks a hint of sunrise. I
adjust my leather and Portofino Green helmet which has blown back during my
ride. "You?"
Our
light turns green. We idle.
He
says, "I work the night shift at Jepson. The warehouse. A transformer blew
north of Plano, and we went dark. They let us off early, so I guess I'm going
home." His straight right arm rests at the top of the steering wheel,
bending at the wrist. I love the manly pose, the voice that rivals my scooter's
thrum.
An
SUV stops at the cross street as our light turns yellow.
And
I know what I want.
"I'm
Serita."
"John,"
he says. Receding hairline dips into view.
I clasp his left hand. "John, why don't I
make you breakfast?"
"Okay,"
he says thoughtfully.
We
wait in silence for the green light. Then he follows at a discrete distance,
maybe thinking about turning away.
My
quads strain, sitting light in the seat to lessen the visible bulge of my thighs
on either side. The part John's headlights surely illuminate. But I'm not one
bit nervous. It's just like old times.
Dallas, Courtesy Huffington Post
Comments
Post a Comment