Observances
The Scene:
A quarter mile stretch of gravel road connecting two parking lots. Observers include birds, toads, snakes, squirrels, rabbits, turkeys, cranes, geese, mosquitos, and flies — all of whom are inhabitants of the deep foliage flanking the roadside.
The Cast:
Walking Woman: The story is told from her solitary perspective — with the occasional embellishment. She is drop-dead gorgeous and smart as a whip. (See? Embellishment.)
Ambling Dog: Dawdling meanderer, oblivious to anything that does not merit a sniff, or as a result of a sniff — the never-ending sprinkle of pee.
Mysterious Young Man In Beat Up, Parked, Tan Corolla
Mysterious Second Person In Beat Up, Parked, Tan Corolla
Driver of White, Ford F150 — Windows Down, Music Up, Rolling Along The Gravel Road
Woman Riding Old-Fashioned Bicycle with a Basket (Again with the embellishment! There really wasn’t a basket.)
The Story:
(Fair warning — it lacks a tidy conclusion.)
On a warm, sunny, Friday morning, a woman parks her truck in the empty first parking lot entrance to public marsh lands. She gets out and opens the back door to release her black lab. The dog is approaching her tenth birthday and showing signs of age. In addition to having almost as many grey hairs as black, she is stiff and sore. The woman must coax her with a treat to make the journey down from seat to floor, floor to gravel.
In tandem they set off down the road, woman keeping a brisk pace, dog eventually lagging well behind. When the woman reaches the second parking lot, she immediately spies the tan Corolla, windows down. The man in the driver seat appears to be in his mid-twenties and is smoking a cigarette.
“Interesting,” the woman thinks. She turns around and waits for her dawdling, furry companion to catch up before continuing past the barricade that blocks vehicular entry into the marsh. She ponders the oddity of the Corolla driver on a Friday morning. “Not hunting or fishing. Not walking.” The woman and driver exchanged a “hello”, but her intuition told her to walk on without further attempts at conversation.
From past experience, the woman knows the secluded marsh parking lots are sometimes used by people who want to discard unwanted items or hide inappropriate activities. She often sees trash, disposed of improperly — old TVs, mountains of black walnuts — and once, a pile of skinned small mammals. She gave thought to sketchy activities — heroine deals and sexual meet-ups where more often than not, there are no observers with the ability to tell. (Remember the long list of marsh inhabitants?)
Woman and dog walk on. She hopes the Corolla is gone by the time she makes her return trip.
It’s not.
What’s that? Now there is a second head visible through the windshield? Where was that head on her first passing? Eyes forward, she and her still lagging canine move down the foliage-sheltered roadway.
Tires crunch on gravel as a white, rusting pick-up approaches from the first parking lot. Dog leashed, the driver and walker give each other a nod as rap music thumps out of the trucks open windows. The woman’s thoughts flicker. Supplier? Dealer? Completely unrelated? She half scolds herself for letting her thoughts meander into negativity.
Now this is where the scene takes a new and different turn. Looking up, the woman sees another vehicle approaching. This one has two wheels and is pedaled by a middle aged woman with dishwater blonde hair secured in a scrunchie. She sports a neon, orange-salmon colored, crew neck t-shirt. She looks like she just rode out of 1988. The walker looks around for Michael J. Fox or Christopher Lloyd, but does not see them anywhere.
“Should I tell her something sketchy might be going on in the second parking lot; or, do I stick to the standard Hi, How’s it going?” the walker wonders. Before she can formulate an answer to her own question, the bike rider speaks.
“The mold is so bad today. I’ve already put drops in my eyes and taken my allergy medicine. My eyes won’t stop watering and itching,” her words trail off as she pedals by.
“Whoa there Nellie,” the walker thinks. “I don’t even know you. Good luck to you there in the next parking lot. I imagine you’ll take care of yourself, allergies and all.
I’m good, by the way. Have yourself a nice day.”
The walker hoists her dog into the back seat of their ticket home, thinking about what she can do with the morning’s experiences.
Two days later, her internal philosopher wonders why she continues to wear the above observances like a winter coat on a sweltering summer day.
She must be a writer.
