Sometimes I imagine that I’m living in some stupid indie teen coming of age film. It would open on our little town surrounded by cornfields and rolling hills. Cracked roads with potholes littering their surface, truck wheels bouncing over them while bits of hay fly out the back. The opening credits would roll, and maybe you’d see a spotted old dog covered in deer ticks sticking his big ol’ head out of a shitty minivan. Mrs. Simpson’s horses all standing together in their run-in shed, out of reach from the sun, flies buzzing around their eyes and their tails swishing furiously. The cat with the tattered ear padding along the sidewalk in town. He walks his fat, orange self into the mom and pop grocery store I work at every morning at 7:30 am sharp, meowing for handouts. In my head I named him Churchill, for obvious reasons. I thought it was funny. I would put the front of that store in the opening credits, too. It’s got a faded sign with red lettering, yellowing flyers strewn about the windows. Then the camera would pan to my street. It’s the epitome of ‘small town’. Linda with her overflowing trash can at the bottom of her short driveway, Marcus with his three prize trucks shining in juxtaposition to the brick house that he’s allowed vines to creep up, his chain link fence falling and rusty. Then there’s our house. Mom’s got some pretty purple flowers out front, surrounded by a bed of pine needles. Derek’s beige sedan sits out front, paint sparkling artificially in the sun. Sometimes we have a rabbit or two in the yard, crunching on what would have been a vegetable garden. I like it when the deer come, though. Maybe a couple deer would be in my movie’s opening credits, too, with their white tails flipped up like a flag. You know, to symbolize that it’s a small town. Or something. ...
|
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2021
Categories |