The Good Me
Bluelighter
It was a nut and candy store. a green and white plastic table cloth laid out with different nuts, each on a separate square plate. The pisataccios looked old and dry, the oil that had been on them now a faint white dusting. The awning was clean on the part that faced the street, but underneath were streaks of rust that ended in a sharp line about a foot below the highest point I could reach. I thought about the green and white aluminum strips that made up the awning above my great-grandmothers window and off the front porch. Once, when I was no more than 12, I was asked to clean these green and white strips, and I stood outside, spraying the water hose against the window until I saw my great-grandmother come in to view, then I would act as if I had just finished rinsing off a portion I had scrubbed with the long handled brush my step father had given to me. I would set down the hose and pick up the brush, waving through the window. Sometimes I would actually scrub, and this was terrible because the film of grime would fall away from that spot and eventually I scrubbed all the spots you could see without looking too hard. I am certain she was disappointed, but she never paid me anyway.
Looking in through the display window I met eyes with an old man standing in the middle of the center aisle. There were only three aisles, all no more than four feet high. Boxes of chocolate and nicely decorated bags of nuts. There was no one else in the store. It was only four p.m. I didn't immediately look away, although I should have. Old men have nothing to fear so they can stare forever. I could smell him, but that was simply my imagination. My great-grandfather, before he died smelled sour and of menthol. I imagine all old men smell this way. Even now. When I finally did look away, my chest seized sharp and my eyes slightly burned with tears. It reminded me of having to cough, after a long and torturous sickness, when you know the cough will hurt so, so much. You are left with the cough inside you, and the choking sadness of sick. There isn't any satisfaction. I wanted to be alone in my room so I could think of all the terrible things I had done to my great-grandparents. My great-grandfather in the grave but his wife still living in the same house they shared for 50+ years. Now she wakes up to find empty forty ounce bottles of beer on her front lawn. I don't visit anymore. There is something about moving away to the city that allows you to forget all about the old man alone in the nut and chocolate store and the green and white awning strips that you never cleaned.
Looking in through the display window I met eyes with an old man standing in the middle of the center aisle. There were only three aisles, all no more than four feet high. Boxes of chocolate and nicely decorated bags of nuts. There was no one else in the store. It was only four p.m. I didn't immediately look away, although I should have. Old men have nothing to fear so they can stare forever. I could smell him, but that was simply my imagination. My great-grandfather, before he died smelled sour and of menthol. I imagine all old men smell this way. Even now. When I finally did look away, my chest seized sharp and my eyes slightly burned with tears. It reminded me of having to cough, after a long and torturous sickness, when you know the cough will hurt so, so much. You are left with the cough inside you, and the choking sadness of sick. There isn't any satisfaction. I wanted to be alone in my room so I could think of all the terrible things I had done to my great-grandparents. My great-grandfather in the grave but his wife still living in the same house they shared for 50+ years. Now she wakes up to find empty forty ounce bottles of beer on her front lawn. I don't visit anymore. There is something about moving away to the city that allows you to forget all about the old man alone in the nut and chocolate store and the green and white awning strips that you never cleaned.
