low rolls from a distance but breaking out right on top of you. Then afterward everything got quiet and the place filled up with that clean, clear smell you tzet after lightning.
ne, they say it is. It was just barely there, but it was definite—I couldn't get enough of it. And then a little later the smell of ram. again faint and hardly there—but after a while you live off little changes like that. I think I lived off that storm tor days.
Seeing those trees was even better, though. It wasn't just the trees I was seeing, it was a whole memory opening up. and I'm still thinking about it even now: how when 1 was six years old and first went to school, I hated it. I hated the ugly green walls, and the green-and-white tile floor, and the ammonia smell—sort ot the way I came to hate the Nu-Way Laundromat when I was a little older.
Every morning at recess I wouldn't play games with the other kid>—I'd hightail it straight for the SWingsetS. They were these big sturdv playground kind with long heavy chains and plastK scat bottoms that curved around your butt— all except tor the middle swing, which still had a wooden scat from the old days. That was the one 1 always took. I'd concentrate on making that swing go as high BS it'd go, till if
• high enough, almost level with the top bat, I could just batch Barton's Ridge, a few miles away. It made my heatt teel sick to think how tat the distance was between me And it. I'd swing higher and
higher, trying to Imagine I was over there on the other side ot that
tidge—till one ot the te&chen would call tot me to stop ai fl and
,Uc have a turn.
But I never would. I'd keep swinging higher and think it I
I hard enough I could wish myself oufl of that playground and the ridge Into the distance where I'd be s.»te. where nobod) could
thai tune I'd be Swinging s ( . t.ist .md furiOUS none ot the
: nist have tO let me the
h.ilt how I catch hell when I iv< down, but even though
en 1 i urn- down I couldn • my
•it n> me
BOYSOFLIFE D
Pd He hack on thai iwing, and let them tr. me it they could.
Which they finally gave up trying to do.
The last time I evei saw thai playground with those swtngsets and the soot) brick school building I'd always hated bo much was from the window oi Carlos's \'W bus the morning we left. I'd gotten out to where they were camped as early as 1 could—1 didn't want to miss them.
The Mm wasn't even up, and there was this cold mist. They weren't
criy raring to go, it turned out—they'd all gone and gotten drunk after I left, and it was the kind oi hangover you could just see in their races. Carlos especially. He was looking about ten years older than usual, and in addition he was wearing this black headband.
"What's that?" I touched his forehead. "Playing Indian chief?"
But he pulled hack. "Don't touch," he said in this sharp voi<
"Oh, excuse me," I said, chalking it up to his hangover.
"Just don't ever touch the headband, oka\
M it keep your head from railing apart.'" 1 asked him.
"Something like that," he sort o>\ mumbled.
It was one ot those things that, after you've made up your mind to do something, sort ot gives you a warning signal like maybe you shouldn't do it after all. But I decided Carlos and I were both just jumpy that morning, tor obvious reasons, so I let it
Like I said, we drove past the school, and then out along the road
where I lived, and pretty soon we were driving past the trailer. 1 could
see my mom's car parked in front, and I wondered what they were .ill
doin^ in there. Prohahly snll sleeping—hut even it they weren't, it was
early tor anybody to miss me.
Carlos didn't say anything when we drove h\ the trailer, though he must've noticed me Staring at it out the window as we passed. Maybe he didn't rememher it from hein^ there just once, hut I think he prohahly did. Carlos didn't tor^et things.
I think what it was: Carlos was s L ,ired to death. Ot course, he never let on to that, not even years later when
ne, they say it is. It was just barely there, but it was definite—I couldn't get enough of it. And then a little later the smell of ram. again faint and hardly there—but after a while you live off little changes like that. I think I lived off that storm tor days.
Seeing those trees was even better, though. It wasn't just the trees I was seeing, it was a whole memory opening up. and I'm still thinking about it even now: how when 1 was six years old and first went to school, I hated it. I hated the ugly green walls, and the green-and-white tile floor, and the ammonia smell—sort ot the way I came to hate the Nu-Way Laundromat when I was a little older.
Every morning at recess I wouldn't play games with the other kid>—I'd hightail it straight for the SWingsetS. They were these big sturdv playground kind with long heavy chains and plastK scat bottoms that curved around your butt— all except tor the middle swing, which still had a wooden scat from the old days. That was the one 1 always took. I'd concentrate on making that swing go as high BS it'd go, till if
• high enough, almost level with the top bat, I could just batch Barton's Ridge, a few miles away. It made my heatt teel sick to think how tat the distance was between me And it. I'd swing higher and
higher, trying to Imagine I was over there on the other side ot that
tidge—till one ot the te&chen would call tot me to stop ai fl and
,Uc have a turn.
But I never would. I'd keep swinging higher and think it I
I hard enough I could wish myself oufl of that playground and the ridge Into the distance where I'd be s.»te. where nobod) could
thai tune I'd be Swinging s ( . t.ist .md furiOUS none ot the
: nist have tO let me the
h.ilt how I catch hell when I iv< down, but even though
en 1 i urn- down I couldn • my
•it n> me
BOYSOFLIFE D
Pd He hack on thai iwing, and let them tr. me it they could.
Which they finally gave up trying to do.
The last time I evei saw thai playground with those swtngsets and the soot) brick school building I'd always hated bo much was from the window oi Carlos's \'W bus the morning we left. I'd gotten out to where they were camped as early as 1 could—1 didn't want to miss them.
The Mm wasn't even up, and there was this cold mist. They weren't
criy raring to go, it turned out—they'd all gone and gotten drunk after I left, and it was the kind oi hangover you could just see in their races. Carlos especially. He was looking about ten years older than usual, and in addition he was wearing this black headband.
"What's that?" I touched his forehead. "Playing Indian chief?"
But he pulled hack. "Don't touch," he said in this sharp voi<
"Oh, excuse me," I said, chalking it up to his hangover.
"Just don't ever touch the headband, oka\
M it keep your head from railing apart.'" 1 asked him.
"Something like that," he sort o>\ mumbled.
It was one ot those things that, after you've made up your mind to do something, sort ot gives you a warning signal like maybe you shouldn't do it after all. But I decided Carlos and I were both just jumpy that morning, tor obvious reasons, so I let it
Like I said, we drove past the school, and then out along the road
where I lived, and pretty soon we were driving past the trailer. 1 could
see my mom's car parked in front, and I wondered what they were .ill
doin^ in there. Prohahly snll sleeping—hut even it they weren't, it was
early tor anybody to miss me.
Carlos didn't say anything when we drove h\ the trailer, though he must've noticed me Staring at it out the window as we passed. Maybe he didn't rememher it from hein^ there just once, hut I think he prohahly did. Carlos didn't tor^et things.
I think what it was: Carlos was s L ,ired to death. Ot course, he never let on to that, not even years later when
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