Joey

This is what I wrote last night. After attending my classes and getting home at 10:15 pm I felt a little sluggish. But I am finding that once you start writing about things that interest you, and begin asking questions that intrigue you - somehow more energy comes!

Joey had never been to been to Mexico. He wrote a letter once that went there - I think he was about five or maybe six. I can’t remember how old he was, the story changes all the time but that is what makes it interesting. All I know for sure is that at no point did his body ever cross that border. Joey is funny like that though, whenever a kid makes some joke about brown men, cheap labor, or anything like that he smiles. I remember the one about Jose can you see? Maybe you haven’t heard it. Something about some Mexican kid who was at a baseball game and didn’t have a seat but thought everyone cared about him cause they were singing the national anthem. Yeah, sorta funny I guess. Maybe that is not how it goes.

I call him Joey, but his folks call him Jose, which is more accurate probably. They aren’t from Mexico is the thing though. Sometimes I wonder if he wonders why everyone starts cracking Mexican jokes when he is American – and even his parents aren’t Mexican, they are from Peru or something. You know, one of those other countries down there. In Oklahoma you don’t see much, but the first time I saw Joey I knew I had seen enough. It was all I could do to not run off with him but of course that would cause a scandal at church and Dora would be furious. If there are two things in this world I can’t afford to do is to make wrong by way of those two. The church was a place for the perfect I guess. That never made sense to me – why when anyone had a “problem” it became the subject of everyone’s salad conversations and foyer snickerings. But Dora said the Lord would set um right and I suppose he will, in due time. I reckon the would get talking fast if I ran off with Joey, I mean there is only fifteen or so of us at bible study, and they all think he is a Mexican anyway.

Goal to write: with a sample

So I begin a class tomorrow in which I will be asked to write every single day. This is something I have long been trying to do, and have put off.

It seemed like posting on this blog would be sort of a way to keep myself accountable and also maybe I can share a little bit more than I have in the past the things that are close to my mind and heart as I share them in writing.

For the most part, the writing on this blog will be works of fiction. I know that many of the things I will use as prompts and guides will also come from past memories and experiences - of which I mean no harm or offense to family members and friends.

Sitting on the bus, the radio faintly blaring, he looked out the window. The light wasn't out yet, but the mist and icy fingers of darkness still remained. Maybe the light wouldn't come out today. The lines moved quickly, the yellow blurring till there was only one line - like sparkler on the fourth of July, but without the brilliance or the color. Poles moved just within sight, the tops were being sucked by the sleepy mist. The lines that connected them seemed to droop at the same angel that his lips did. It wasn't that those lines were sad, but they weren't happy. His hands were small but they worked non-the-less. The window was cold but he kept his skin pressed against the damp surface, moving up and down - his fingers running at the speed of unimaginable lengths to keep aloft the bobbing of the wire as it bumped up over the poles and down into the easy sags. After a minute he stopped.

The boy was small for his age. His sweatshirt surrounded him in a similar way the water gathered around the clump of Mom's rose bushes in the summer when they left the hose on before going to get milkshakes. His hood was pulled over his head, not tight like one of those kids at the ski resort who has to protect him from the cold, but hiding and comforting. Eyes are peculiar things, someone once said that a person's eyes can tell you all you need to know about them. If that is true then this boy would be unknowable. Blinking from the dark of the hood the light blue orbs reflected the monochrome world that he existed in. He barely had lips. They were more like padding for the small opening of a mouth that was constantly held in a tight line except when they served chocolate pudding at lunch.

“Jamison?” The voice of the bus driver seemed to reflect of the walls of the bus.

The boy stood as the poles rested with the droopy wire and the sparklers faded to stagnate yellow lines on the road.

“Hey…” the voice was quiet for a second. “I – uh, hope everything works out.”

When the door closed behind the boy he could feel his world close with it. Ice creams on the back porch, tree houses in the apricot tree, wearing the same dog costume three Halloweens in a row, pouting at the table in protest of the asparagus.

There were now leaves blown up by the thrust of exhaust of the engine of the bus. The trees swayed slightly, trying to contain their disagreement with the change in weather will also compensating for the loss of their covering. The boy pulled down his hood, shivering a little and adjusting his backpack.

Slipping out of the bath, hiding under the dirty laundry, crying for Grandpa and with Grandpa, drinking soda even though his throat didn’t hurt that much.

Walking down the hill the boy didn’t turn his head. He knew that that is where he first kissed Sarah. Under the tree right there, it was summer time and that was right before they found him and after laughing they had a long talk. That house, not the brown big one but that small gray one is where Jeremy lived. The basketball hoop was growing rust like the kiwi in the back of the refrigerator was white fur. He had saved it for when he was going to catch scurvy. In school they learned that if sailors didn’t eat their fruit then they got sick. It never happened though, and the basketball hoop is still there. Some things stay, and some leave – like the kiwi. Like Jeremy.

He didn’t need to look up to know that he was at home. The bark of the dog was different today. There was no pressure of feeding him, walking him, or even petting him. The voice of the animal was strangely like the feeling of lying in bed and feeling the pillow supports your head. The boy didn’t know why the tear came down his face – but it did. He wiped it quickly, but some snot got stuck on his sleeve and he had to rub it into the clothes to disguise the fact.

Opening the door the boy let the different smells and sensations press on his face. The cold was shut out, but not of his mind.

“Hey! Is that you?” It was coming from upstairs. It was the same as it had been since he could remember. But it wasn’t the same.

His voice was calm, surprisingly strong for the small frame. He pulled off his hood, freeing up his overgrown tufts of hair and shedding the layers of cold and foreboding accumulated from outside. “Yep.”