Photo by Walter Sturn on Unsplash
Johnny heads over to the grocery store. As he's crossing the road he swats a fly from the right side of his face. In his left shorts pocket is the chewing gum that's stuck deep down in the corner part of the pocket. He's playing with his yoyo without trying and it's doing its thing with alacrity. All the while he's humming and enjoying the hum. No particular tune. A made-up lullaby, easy and loose.
Halfway across the dusty street of East Mulberry, he stops and looks around. Empty. Not a soul in sight. A cricket hops over to where he's standing, stops near his leather sandals that are scuffed. The sandals are new. He lets the yoyo dangle over the cricket's head. A dog howls somewhere. He looks up, squints from the mid-day sun. The sun's almost straight up. He squints some more and looks at the sun through his right hand. The scar that runs from his thumb to his pudgy little wrist is clean and shiny, hard to see clearly with the corona around his shaded hand.
Momma comes out with the groceries, stands near the door, leans against it, watching Johnny. Johnny looks up, sees her, sees that she sees him, sees how she's just standing there smiling at him. She's so beautiful.
'What cha doin', tiger?'
'Nothin''.
Momma starts to walk over and takes her time. A car horn makes them both look towards the sound but there's nothing there. A hot breeze blows around the whitewashed houses with their manicured lawns. Momma's brow is shiny with tiny beads of perspiration. Her shadow moves behind her, gets smaller and nearly vanishes as she gets close. Johnny's standing there looking down at his shoes.
'It's Jiminy, momma. Can I take him home?'
'How d'ya know it's a he?'
He looks up at the person he loves and smiles, showing a gap tooth mouth.
'I don't.'
Momma places the bags of groceries over away to her left and squats down, looks closer at the cricket. Johnny does the same. He holds himself from falling by using his hands on his chubby, bended knees. The yoyo dangles on the road, shiny and lacquered with bright reds, blues and greens in swirls. They look in silence for a while and wait for the cricket to do something. It doesn't.
'You sure it's alive?'
'Yep.'
Sound of pitter pattering feet come along and there's Joby. The town pooch joined the look see. Joby's a mongrel. Half gun dog, half who knows, but he loves everybody and most everybody loves Joby. He lives with Amarinda, an old retired schoolteacher, wisewoman, that never goes to church and sits on her porch talking to the breeze in the hot summer evenings and drinking beer.
The three of them there watching and nothing happening. After a spell, momma takes a deep breath and starts rising. She dusts herself down for some reason and looks around. Picks up her groceries and starts walking towards the four-by four.
Dark glasses, high heels, a red chiffon scarf highlighting her peroxide hair and tight lemon skirt with matching light chemise, bangles jangling her thin wrists. Small, green leather satchel over one shoulder, chewing gum without opening her mouth. Momma doesn't walk, she sashays.
'You mind you don't hurt the little critter, tiger.'
Jobey sniffs closer and gingerly puts out an old paw that's seen better days towards the 'critter'. The paw doesn't actually touch, it goes backwards and forwards, close but no cigar. Johnny ruffles Joby's bony head and hugs him away from Jiminy.
'Don't hurt him, Jobe. He's special. Why he might up and whistle any minute.'
Johnny slowly edges closer on his knees and lowers his upper arms to the road. Gently, he inches his forearms towards the unmoving Gryllidae and waits with a focus unbecoming a six year old. With a quick motion, he pounces but not fast enough. The little boy gives chase and Joby comes along for the ride.
High up in the Arizona stratosphere a lone eagle circles the updrafts.
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