Post by catskill on Jun 27, 2010 7:54:47 GMT -5
I guess we should stick to very short stories...and also what are often called "vignettes," or literary snapshots of life in a particular moment.
On Riding
by
David Bassano
There was a good ride from Bridgeton to Sea Breeze, preferably in the early spring or fall to avoid the greenhead flies which are as aggressive as northern black flies but larger and leave a bigger welt. It was about ten miles to the edge of the bay from my apartment. First you rode south on Fayette Street under the shade of oaks and maples, and there was little traffic, especially in the early morning. Then you made a right onto a country road at the edge of town, and suddenly there were no trees, but only open dusty fields, either fallow or full of tomatoes or zucchinis or huge cabbages that you could smell if the wind was right; and hopefully you didn’t have a windy day. If you did, the headwind could nearly stop you dead; the crosswinds from the fields blew dust in the same way it drifted snow, and you’d feel the stinging sand flying against your face and ears.
The wind might keep the temperature down, though. There was never any shade outside of town and soon your t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and the sweat trickled down behind your ears and stung your face and neck if you had shaved that morning. You had two bottles clipped to the frame beneath you with water or iced tea and, without stopping, you reached down to lift one to quench your thirst. If it was just water you might squeeze it onto your head to cool yourself.
It got lonely sometimes without company or a Walkman but you started to see things clearly without distraction. You heard the whirling of the derailleur and the light hiss of the tires on the road and your own breathing. You noticed the broken edges of the road and the weeds and wildflowers along the side of the asphalt. You saw houses and barns you never noticed while driving a car, because it was too fast and required too much attention. There were long straight stretches of road, sometimes bordered by houses and trees and green lawns that turned into fenced horse ranches, and across the street was a farm with a line of trees behind it.
You rolled into a small town, just a crossroads with a post office, gas station, and a deli on the corner. Maybe you got off the bike and leaned it against the wall of the deli because you wanted a sandwich and felt the tightness in your legs when you walked in. Like all the places out here it’s simple and bare, meant only for locals. There was a counter and register, a glass case full of meats and cheese, all cheap and processed, and a few tables. There was a grill for making egg sandwiches and another glass case full of soda. If it was early enough there would still be old retired farmers and truckers at the tables, who met here for coffee and bagels and stayed until they wandered off to the bar for lunch. As the old men talked, the young men came in for sandwiches on their way to work; men with tools flapping and swinging in wide leather belts, or in overalls and a John Deere hat and grease-stained hands; they greeted the old men who remembered them as children and watched them with pride and secret memory. They took the sandwiches wrapped in butcher’s paper from the burley woman who ran the place, with her stained apron and tattoos, short hair and strong hands who could only pause a minute or two during the day to smoke a cigarette outside the back door in the weedy gravel parking lot.
The men paid you no mind because they didn’t know your father and you took your ham and cheese on a hardroll to the bench on the grass in front of the post office and ate there with the water from the bike. You saw the seagulls over the trees and knew the bay was close; you noticed the shapes of the clouds or the cool smell of the trees and grass in contrast to the dust of the open road. Maybe one of the houses had a small boat on a trailer on a driveway of crushed oyster shells. You felt good from the exercise and the carelessness of the unscheduled day and were glad to be alone when you got back on the bike.
On the last few miles to the bay you passed a baseball field and a fire station, and the ditches along the road were full of cattails. There was a broken road through a swampy meadow with grass almost as high as your head, and blackbirds hovering or perched atop cattails, singing. You could smell the bay now. Finally you followed an unpaved road into a collection of houses called Sea Breeze, New Jersey. The houses were humble and low with screens around the porches to keep out the greenheads. Maybe a stray dog wandered the streets.
You rode carefully over the pitted road to the sea wall, a jumble of broken concrete blocks that keeps the bay out of the town. Across the bay you could see a line of trees in the haze: that’s Delaware. That’s where you bought the bike in the first place, because they have no sales tax there, and also bought a bike carrier for the car so you could bring it home. And the memory of driving out of state, coupled with the isolation of your surroundings, made you think of somewhere else, someplace better and more exciting where you’d be happy, and that thought would follow you closely through the working week and beyond.
On Riding
by
David Bassano
There was a good ride from Bridgeton to Sea Breeze, preferably in the early spring or fall to avoid the greenhead flies which are as aggressive as northern black flies but larger and leave a bigger welt. It was about ten miles to the edge of the bay from my apartment. First you rode south on Fayette Street under the shade of oaks and maples, and there was little traffic, especially in the early morning. Then you made a right onto a country road at the edge of town, and suddenly there were no trees, but only open dusty fields, either fallow or full of tomatoes or zucchinis or huge cabbages that you could smell if the wind was right; and hopefully you didn’t have a windy day. If you did, the headwind could nearly stop you dead; the crosswinds from the fields blew dust in the same way it drifted snow, and you’d feel the stinging sand flying against your face and ears.
The wind might keep the temperature down, though. There was never any shade outside of town and soon your t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and the sweat trickled down behind your ears and stung your face and neck if you had shaved that morning. You had two bottles clipped to the frame beneath you with water or iced tea and, without stopping, you reached down to lift one to quench your thirst. If it was just water you might squeeze it onto your head to cool yourself.
It got lonely sometimes without company or a Walkman but you started to see things clearly without distraction. You heard the whirling of the derailleur and the light hiss of the tires on the road and your own breathing. You noticed the broken edges of the road and the weeds and wildflowers along the side of the asphalt. You saw houses and barns you never noticed while driving a car, because it was too fast and required too much attention. There were long straight stretches of road, sometimes bordered by houses and trees and green lawns that turned into fenced horse ranches, and across the street was a farm with a line of trees behind it.
You rolled into a small town, just a crossroads with a post office, gas station, and a deli on the corner. Maybe you got off the bike and leaned it against the wall of the deli because you wanted a sandwich and felt the tightness in your legs when you walked in. Like all the places out here it’s simple and bare, meant only for locals. There was a counter and register, a glass case full of meats and cheese, all cheap and processed, and a few tables. There was a grill for making egg sandwiches and another glass case full of soda. If it was early enough there would still be old retired farmers and truckers at the tables, who met here for coffee and bagels and stayed until they wandered off to the bar for lunch. As the old men talked, the young men came in for sandwiches on their way to work; men with tools flapping and swinging in wide leather belts, or in overalls and a John Deere hat and grease-stained hands; they greeted the old men who remembered them as children and watched them with pride and secret memory. They took the sandwiches wrapped in butcher’s paper from the burley woman who ran the place, with her stained apron and tattoos, short hair and strong hands who could only pause a minute or two during the day to smoke a cigarette outside the back door in the weedy gravel parking lot.
The men paid you no mind because they didn’t know your father and you took your ham and cheese on a hardroll to the bench on the grass in front of the post office and ate there with the water from the bike. You saw the seagulls over the trees and knew the bay was close; you noticed the shapes of the clouds or the cool smell of the trees and grass in contrast to the dust of the open road. Maybe one of the houses had a small boat on a trailer on a driveway of crushed oyster shells. You felt good from the exercise and the carelessness of the unscheduled day and were glad to be alone when you got back on the bike.
On the last few miles to the bay you passed a baseball field and a fire station, and the ditches along the road were full of cattails. There was a broken road through a swampy meadow with grass almost as high as your head, and blackbirds hovering or perched atop cattails, singing. You could smell the bay now. Finally you followed an unpaved road into a collection of houses called Sea Breeze, New Jersey. The houses were humble and low with screens around the porches to keep out the greenheads. Maybe a stray dog wandered the streets.
You rode carefully over the pitted road to the sea wall, a jumble of broken concrete blocks that keeps the bay out of the town. Across the bay you could see a line of trees in the haze: that’s Delaware. That’s where you bought the bike in the first place, because they have no sales tax there, and also bought a bike carrier for the car so you could bring it home. And the memory of driving out of state, coupled with the isolation of your surroundings, made you think of somewhere else, someplace better and more exciting where you’d be happy, and that thought would follow you closely through the working week and beyond.
