Golden Slippers

IT was one of those muggy summer nights when sweat drips from every pore at the slightest body movement, and when it hurts to breathe. The sun was dipping into twilight and mosquitoes were thick around the edges of the woods, the lawn, the driveway. The heat forced the dissipation of outside smells: the sheep in the next door field, the stale grass clippings across the street, and the hydrangea, which had replaced the short-lived lilac blooms as the current live fragrance.

Viv scooted along the road; listening, thinking. She clutched the handlebars tightly, right leg pumping, purple Vans hitting pavement and bouncing airward twice before resting; left leg balanced firmly on the narrow scooter floor. Thud, thud, coast one thousand. Thud, thud, coast two thousand…. The purple vans kept time with her heartbeat.

Scootering is indifferent to thought: you can choose to lose yourself mindlessly in the rhythm or use the repetition to ponder wondrous things. A few activities are like that, mostly having to do with exercise or music. Thud, thud, coast three thousand. Thud, thud, coast four thousand…

And now Viv had both: the boy from down the road was driving by on his golf cart, as he did almost every night at dusk, with his boombox full of crooning classics playing out the back. Last night had been Frank Sinatra’s "Coffee." Tonight was Mitch Miller’s rendition of “Golden Slippers.” As a girl, Viv’s daddy had played old vinyl’s on his 1968 RCA Victrola, and Viv had always thought the tune was “Golden Summers.” It sounded so much more romantic, but made so much less sense when combined with the rest of the song lyrics. She was disappointed to learn the truth.

And that’s the way life is, isn’t it.

It isn't a question, because you’re only allowed one answer. Thud, thud, coast five thousand. Thud, thud, coast six thousand…

The boy on the golf cart waved and smiled, as he did almost every night at dusk. And because she only ever saw him at dusk, and because she was a little shy about looking boys straight in the eye, Viv didn’t quite know what he looked like. But the shape of his face was sanguine, and his haircut handsome.

And then he was gone in the red-gold haze of evening, Golden Slippers floating behind him, following.

She was drifting in and out of thought, as scootering allowed her to do. One moment she was lost in the bliss of sticky air bowing to her whims, the next, mulling over decisions to be made. Thud, thud, coast seven thousand. Thud, thud, coast seight thousand…Sometimes it was scary to Viv how much time she managed to muse away, doing nothing. Lost in reverie, lost in space, lost in impracticality...

But if time is money, and money is time, and you can’t take it with you, then to what end? Viv knew this last was a fragmented sentence. But when you think, you don’t always think in AP Style. Life is ambiguous. Fragmented. Non-linear. Destiny doesn’t happen in a line. Bananas don’t mix well with mangoes, because their tropics are different. Nothing that’s important can be measured in formulas or predictions. There is lots of unhappiness in the world. Some people give a damn. And some don’t. And what will I eat tomorrow? And when should I tell him I want to break up? And how will I know which job I should take, if I’m offered both?

And Vivien thought that reading “Slaughterhouse 5” was pointless. Why did so many boys from school like this book? But she decided to adopt that one annoying line that tied it all together because it fits the indifference, the ambiguity, the fate.

And so it goes: golden slippers, golden summers, golf carts with happy lads and scooters with bashful girls. Thud, thud. Coast…thud, thud. Thud, thud.

....