Pork chop Night. part 2

Thunderstorms are hint of the power that can be had when many small things work together, whether on purpose or otherwise. This power can be seen in many things; people, ants and water droplets. But is not limited to physical beings or tangible objects, it can be stored as small comments unforgotten and memories long un-thought. The madness of crowds and small multiples is nothing that can be planned, although it often happens on purpose and is sometimes overdue. Anger and dissention rise like a thunderstorm, with feeble beginnings and innocent grudges, and slowly but exponentially grows over time, sometimes unknown to its captive. One cannot hold forever this weighted state and will one day give deluge to it’s furry, even if unknown, hidden within.  

“I very much like dogs,” I say to myself as I pedal home. I don’t think I would like to own one, but I like the idea all the same.. There was something happening overhead. The clouds were giving up their independence and joining into something greater. Low rumbles of thunder were starting to make their way to my ears. I loved thunderstorms.

It was getting a little dark as I neared our building, and by the time I reached the front stoop it was raining slightly.  I pulled my hawthorn up the eight steps to our front door. I know it was exactly eight as I counted them ever time I went up or down. It made me happy that there were eight and not seven or nine. It was an even eight, a good sturdy number, plus I like the sound of the word eight. Its like ‘ate’ but slightly different. I like words that are close but not quite. The front door was open slightly, a weird open. Not all the way open as if to suggest purpose, and not just barely to suggest a carless closing, but sort of not quite half way open. Or maybe a little more than half closed. I pushed the door open all the way and pulled my shining and now water droplet stricken bike into the foyer and leaned it on the wall under the coat rack, pinching the sleeves of one of my dads camel hair coats between the handlebars and the wall. I pulled at an end of my scarf, which hung on the rack all year long, until it fell off the hook and over the top bar of my bike like lace. I took both ends and dried my bike with back and fourth polishing motion. My mom would be furious if she saw me do this, after all it was from Macy’s. I put the scarf back on the hook with a sort of lasso motion but not letting go of either end. It caught the wooden peg on the third try and as it did I noticed the tag. ‘Marc Wollard’. My mom had written my name on the tag with Sanford’s ink so as to identify it to me. For some reason all my scarves kept loosing me. I closed the door behind me, locked both the handle and the deadbolt, and made my way up the stairs and into the house proper. 

Pork Chop Night

“Hi.” I said as I approached. There was no answer. I slowed my bicycle to a stop two feet from the dog, still in the street, my front tire resting on the 6 inch curb. It was a Hawthorn Zep that my dad, of course with much persuasion from my mother, reluctantly bought me for my birthday last year, August 16th. “Ordered brand new from Montgomery Ward’s.” I would tell anyone who asked, and often those who didn’t. The bike was considerably to big for me but my mother kept saying “he’ll grow into it in no time”.

  

I set my bike on its side near the gutter but out of the street, careful not scratch the shining new paint. ( I had already polished it three times with the turtle wax I found in the garage)  The dog didn’t look up or even give an afterthought to my arrival. He just lay, lethargic in his summer boredom, on his side. He was a ridiculous looking dog. The kind with the skin two sizes too big. He looked as though he were melting into the sidewalk.

“Hi.” I said again, and was met with an abrupt “you can’t pet him.”

“Why not?” I said, looking over at her.

“He doesn’t like you.” She said. She was sitting on the second step, just above the dog.

“I never met him. How does he know he doesn’t like me?” I said nonplussed, proud of my on-the-spot logic.

“He just doesn’t, or wouldn’t. I know him pretty well. After all, he is my dog. Besides, he’s real vicious. He could bite your arm off an’ eat it if he wanted. I’ve seen him do it before”

I looked down at the dog. He gave a lazy sideways glance and went back to thawing into the concrete. “He doesn’t look mean.” I said, matter of factly. “He looks down right nice if you ask me.”

“Well he’s not.” She said. “Why do you think we hadda’ move here?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“He killed a man, our neighbor, where we used to live up north a little. We had to leave in the middle a’ the night to avoid the cops. It was really quite exciting.”

I looked at her, dumbfounded, and picked up my bike.

“Where did you get that bike anyway.” She said, in a tone no doubt gleaned from her mother and her friends. It was the kind of tone reserved for such quips women say in private company, like, “where on earth did she get that haircut?” or “did you see those shoes?!”

“Ordered brand new from Montgomery Ward’s.” I said with pride, bathing in the jealousy I knew was coming from her.

“Well, I don’t like it.” She said, “and neither does Charles.” She said positioning her nose ever so slightly but almost unnoticeably higher and to the right than it was before.

“Is Charles his name?” I asked. “After Charles Lindbergh?”

“Yes its Charles and no it’s not after Lindbergh.” She stated. “You really believe that guy flew al the way to Paris? Seems a little fishy to me.”

“They said he did at school.” I said, and, “can I call him Charlie?”

“No, his name is Charles, he’s dignified.” She said, followed by, ”You believe everything they tell you in school?”

With that I turned my new Hawthorn toward the street and started to walk away.

“Hey.” she said calling after me.

I stopped and turned my head slightly over my left shoulder. Enough to let her know I was listening but not enough to show her I cared. 

“He’s named after Charles Chaplin.”  

“Oh.” I say as I continue walking.

“I’ll talk to him tonight. Maybe I can convince him not to eat your arm.”

I kept walking.

When I got to the street corner I kicked the pedal of my bike backwards, taking advantage of the freewheel, to get it in just the right position, put my left foot on and stood on it, letting my weight propel the bike forward as I swung my right leg over the seat. I rode home, as it was getting late and my mom was making pork chops. She hated it when I was late on pork chop night. Any other night seemed to be ok but certainly not pork chop night.