Iris

One thousand, seven hundred and forty-five people from eight hundred twenty-four households located in one point one square miles of a valley in the Shale Tier. Jon knew the names of all of his constituents. He greeted them on the street, in the grocery store and the VFW. They smiled when he asked about their families, their jobs and pets. As mayors went, he was the best. He kissed babies, shook hands with farmers and listened to women. In every election year, the good people of his town re-elected him. He led his town for twenty years now.

He was born in 1956, in this town. His mother gave birth to him at home in her marital bed. He grew up here, running between corn stalks, laughing, mouth wide open, occasionally swallowing a bug. He stacked bales of hay into tunnels in a barn, crawling through the straw up to turrets above the cow stalls. He warmed his bare feet in fresh patties, squishing them between his toes.

In one of these rocky mountain fields, at the age of twelve, Jon spoke his promise to a hawk circling over his head.

"One day, I will be king."

He spoke these words in a rush as he ducked behind the old rusting cars his father had dumped in the upper cow pasture. He peeked around a rotting tire. The old man carried his black belt between both big hands, snapping the leather and clicking the pin against the buckle. The sound traveled up the hill to Jon's hiding place. Jon picked up a rock. His father came around the car. Jon stood. He topped his father by three inches. Jon looked to the house. His mother leaned on one of the porch columns, blood from her forehead smearing the white paint. The wet dark smudges called to Jon like a neon sign telling him it was time.

His father raised the belt. Jon pushed his father's drunken arm aside and smashed the rock on his father's head.

The insurance money sent Jon to a private high school and a prestigious college. His mother turned out to be an investment wiz which set them up as small town royalty. Jon came home at twenty-two to do good works. The next year, he took part in his first election and he won in a land-slide.

He looked out of his office window. The large panes gave him an unobstructed view the town's main street. His people traveled the center of town with purpose. They dressed in grays, browns and dull blues. He watched them with an unexpected sense of dissatisfaction.

Yellow caught his eye. Lavender, red and stark white flashed. A girl danced on the side-walk in front of the bank, her blonde hair floating on the breeze. He leaned foreword placing his hand on the glass. His mouth watered. His body tingling. As he watched the girl spin, he heard music swell around him. He wanted.

Road Trip

The day started in a bar, as they often did back in the early 80’s. Donna’s boyfriend was on the road heading in our direction. I didn’t have a special someone. Our plan was to kill a few hours with alcohol in Pete’s Pub where Donna grew up at her daddy’s elbow. Pete’s son, Pete Junior, practiced making Kamikazes. Donna and I critiqued seven pitchers of the limey goodness between draft beers for her and gin and tonics for me by the time we determined PJ had mastered his technique. Being unofficial employees (taste tester is a real job) we drank for free in payment for services rendered.

Donna missed her boyfriend. He called to let her know he wouldn’t be able to get into town. His truck broke down at the truck stop in Elkton, Maryland. She was sad. She didn’t get to see him often. He drove a truck up and down and across the country. He lived in Arkansas. He was a married man. She was very sad. I was drunk enough to feel her pain acutely. I, too, was lonely.

Donna didn’t drive but I had a big, beautiful 1968 Dodge Coronet in silvery blue with a white rag-top. I still loved driving back then because I was fearless and didn’t care if I got a speeding ticket. My beautiful car kept me out of any real trouble. One look at that baby, and the cops fell in love and wanted to know how I was lucky enough to have her.

One winter, I tried to plow it through a snow bank on the newly finished Route 55 near Glassboro. The engine objected greatly when the pile of snow turned out to be a small mountain of frozen dirt. Cars, no matter how beautiful and special, will not put up with that shit.
But that was later. This evening, I needed to help my friend

“Let’s go to him,” I said.

“Yes.”

We found our drunken way to my car. I don’t remember much of the three hour drive to Maryland except we made an error in judgement and almost ended up in DC. But the lure of love is strong, even when it’s not your love. We found Donna’s boyfriend. They went off to his truck and left me in the club. I didn’t mind too much. I found a partner to dance with through the night.