that thus manipulate you in a way that you secretly enjoy being manipulated, you have found a degree of repose in that world’s logic), you derive some satisfaction from finishing it, because it is another thing done. (You can proceed to the next item on the list, even if it be only another story. The sediment of all these stories does produce a significant quantity of aggregate.) So it was under my tree. I was loath to leave it, yet I wanted to finish my ice cream cone and go home. (My mother and I were scheduled to watch a movie that night.)
At some point I was clearly going to leave, and the rising clamor of the quacking children was tipping the scale. But I wanted something that would give finality to my time there, some act that would provide a measure of closure. I was only half-finished with my ice cream, and it was melting fast. Honestly, I was only a one scoop kind of boy. I had a low tolerance of sweets, but this was a truth I conveniently forgot every time I bought ice cream. At any rate, I did not want more. (There were some orange smears, but primarily what was left was mint chocolate chip.) The homeless woman gave a mighty honk of a snore, after which her breathing stopped for a moment before she began snoring again. I went over to her. Her face was round and riddled with pockmarks. It was something out of an old book of photographs. It looked stoic. Her hair was black. I said “Hey” several times, but she did not respond. This woman, surely, would appreciate some mint chocolate chip ice cream in a cone. For some reason I felt a kinship to her, though it was readily apparent that of kinship there was none. With my foot I shook her foot; it rotated, but the rest of her was unresponsive. I put my foot on her thigh and jostled it. I put my toe in her side and jiggled her stomach; her entire body jiggled, her head even rocking back and forth, but still nothing. My ice cream was melting and beginning to seep through the bottom of the cone and drip onto my hand, from whence it traced a path down the inside of my wrist. I would be sticky. I knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder and shook, saying, “Miss, miss.” The children were approaching, and I did not want to draw attention to myself or this woman. She would surely be a lummox to them, but she was a hillock to me. Her mighty chest rose and fell. She yet breathed.
I put my thumb on one of her cheeks and my fingers on the other and massaged. I slapped her cheeks slightly, as I had seen done in movies. All my efforts were fruitless. I could not bring her back to consciousness to give her my ice cream. With a sense of desperation, I held the cone over her ajar mouth as several drips dripped from it. One landed on her lower lip, which appeared to have an open sore on it, two entered her mouth, and one plunked on her cheek and settled into the divot of an old scar. It was all I could do for her. The children were nearly upon me, the ice cream was no longer viable, and I was scheduled to watch a movie with my mother. Sunlight was slicing from a very obtuse (or acute, depending on your reference angle) angle now, that angle when the light golds. I was the kind of boy who felt remorse for littering, but I set the ice cream cone next to her and walked back to my bike. (Needless to say, I never saw her again.) I was ready to go home.
I rode my bike home. I worked up a sweat. Houses, trees, cars flew by; I paid no attention to them. It felt good to go fast and feel my muscles. I pulled up winded at the corner of our street. Like so many children of that era, I had asthma, and my mother did not like to see me out of breath. As soon as the wind of my ride stopped, I streamed sweat. I dismounted in order to walk the half-block home and catch my breath before presenting myself to my mother. I had a ten-speed bike, red. I was the only boy my age I had seen with a ten-speed bike. Brakes on the handles. It was a gift from my mother, who often joked that for Christmas she’d give me a leash for it. (I took the bike everywhere, but rarely rode it, not due to incapability. I may have mentioned this.) I don’t know what it cost her.
As I approached the house, a man left it. I did not know who he was. He turned the opposite direction from me and walked into the sun, which was low, so I could not see his clothes or hair color or any features at all, except that he was tall and wore a hat and carried a bag over his shoulder. I could only see his silhouette. I stopped and waited for him to turn the corner and pass out of sight before I continued to the house. It gave me a moment to fully catch my breath. He could have been a salesman, or an evangelist. They roamed the streets on weekends, when people were likely to be home, and knocked on doors. They never lingered long at our house; we hadn’t much money. In retrospect though, he was likely our plumber. Our plumbing was rather poor in that house. I walked my bike around back, leaned it against the house, and entered the kitchen.
My mother sat at the table, staring off into space, looking like she was waiting for me. She jumped up, gave me a hug, and asked how my afternoon had been. I said that lunch was good (I did not mention that she had forgotten to pack me a drink) and that I had begun to think about being an ice cream man when I grew up. I would begin an investigation of the requisite schooling presently. She laughed. Her eyes were wet. I laughed too. I’m not sure why, except that she was laughing. I could see the numerous crowns on her teeth. (We both had bad teeth.) Her laugh reminded me of another occasion, when a man stopped by and said certain things could not be gotten but by fasting and praying. She said she agreed, and that right then she was praying that he would leave fast. He left in a huff and we laughed. That is a different story, though we laughed on both occasions. I asked if we were going to church tomorrow. She said she hadn’t decided. It was warmer inside than it was outside. I asked if, either way, in the afternoon, we could go together, just for a little while, it was so nice today, and this could be the last nice weekend, and we didn’t have to do anything but sit, and perhaps buy some ice cream… (I had trouble saying exactly what I was asking for, for some reason.) She gave me a peck on the top of my head and said yes, she’d love to go to the park together tomorrow.
If people want a more final line (again, you can tell in their eyes if they are satisfied), I tell them that I thought this story might help explain some things that have happened since.
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END
About Nick Stokes
Nick Stokes writes fictions, plays, novels, nothings, arrangements, pieces of prose, and other undefinables. He lives mostly or mostly lives in Washington; he packs mules in the backcountry of Montana; he's been elsewhere. Among other explorations, circa 2014, he's working on an immersive (anti)-choose-your-own-adventure novel. His novel AFFAIR was recently serialized and released as an ebook by The Seattle Star. He's been a finalist for many awards; he's received a few. His other writings can be found in dark crannies, in magazines sometimes known as journals, and around the web for dirt cheap or less. For dissemination, refer to https://www.nickstokes.net.
Other Titles by Nick Stokes
Novels:
Affair
You Choose ... (forthcoming)
Novelette:
1 Day
Stories:
An End
Rise, then Descend
What Never Happened, an Observation
(others forthcoming)
Short, Flash, or Nothing Prose:
(numerous but for the moment you must search the web and on occasion read paper)
Connect with Nick Stokes
Author Website:
https://www.nickstokes.net/
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What Never Happened: An Observation was first published by Waccamaw (www.waccamawjournal.com).
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