Category: Stories

Maricopa

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

We arrived in Maricopa April 2.  Uncle Bill thought it was funny that we came from Maricopa, Arizona, to Maricopa, California.

“Just think about how many people will get a kick outta that one,” he said.

“I’m going for a run,” I said.  

Dad glanced up, not at me.  Near me.  “Go up along Klipstein to the highway.  Open Country.”

 I took off.

*

The streets were flat and dusty, cracked asphalt until the highway began.  I ran the shoulder.  I could see mountains in the distance.  There was a For Rent sign in front of a trailer off the highway.  I wondered how far off the mountains were and went blank.  I just ran.

*

They were all in the backyard sitting on lawn chairs with drinks.  I saw them through the kitchen window.  They looked like they were having a good time.  Bill was telling a story.  They all seemed to be enjoying it.  

My parents got the extra room.  I took the couch.  It didn’t matter. I could sleep anywhere.

Mom was sitting on the bed when I got out of the shower.  “Maybe we’ll take up running.”

She looked up at me.  We were all trying.  But it was harder for them. 

* 

Keep Reading Here.

*

Ray

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

“You’re just going to have to come with me,” she said as she put the final touches on her eyelashes.  She brushed the top ones up and the bottom ones down.  “There.”

We left.  I sat in the back seat.   “I should leave him there to stew.”  She always said this and we always got Ray out of jail.  Mom would pick up the phone and talk for a while and then we’d get him out.

Ray stood outside the police station smoking a cigarette.  He leaned against the brick wall, tall and alone.  Mom said, “What the hell?”  Ray opened the door and got in.  His face was cut.  He smelled like cigarettes and something else.  

“Fine example for your brother.”  

Ray turned halfway and winked at me.  

“You stop that right now, Raymond!  I have half a mind to march you right back in there.”  Ray changed his face and sounded contrite.  “You look nice today.”  She reached across the seat to hold his hand.  I saw his jaw muscles set.  

“I’m going in there.  Make sure they clear up this nonsense.”  She shut the car off and looked at her face in the rear-view mirror.  “Back in a sec.”  We watched a policeman hold the door for her and keep looking.  She walked in with her purse under her arm.  Ray turned around to me.

“How’d you get that?”

“Got into a rumble, SmallFry.”  He asked if I wanted to go to the pool.  We talked about the high diving board.  After a while Mom got back in.  She checked herself in the mirror and started the car.

“What do you want for dinner, Raymond?”

Ray raised his eyebrows.  Mom hummed a song.  I sat in the back and hoped for macaroni and cheese.

*

The Pontiac

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment

I was the first punk not afraid to walk up the driveway. I saw him smoking in the front seat of his car, one leg in, the other leg out. He shifted his head and watched me walk up to the car door and ask if I could look inside. “I want one of these.”

He nodded. “You know what this is?” He stared straight at me. I said it was a 1967 Pontiac LeMans with all-original interior from the look of the dashboard and door panels, dials and chrome knobs and the dual-gate shifter in the center console. I touched the split-bench seat behind his shoulder and felt hard black vinyl. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag and exhaled smoke through his nose.

We sat in his car until it was dark, smoking cigarettes and listening to the oldies station that he sometimes tapped the steering wheel to. I asked if he was born there. I told him I couldn’t wait to get out. “It’s a good town and all but nothing that hasn’t been done will ever get done.” He flicked the cigarette away from the car and we lit up again.

“You want to take a drive?”

I said sure and asked if I could take the wheel. He looked sideways at me and blew out smoke fast. “Sure do got a pair,” he said. I knew he was going to let me drive, not out of the gate but later. “She’s got a lot under the hood.” I knew he couldn’t wait. He fired her up. I never heard such a sweet sound before, not from the inside. The floorboards rumbled. I could feel it through my feet. This car had balls. We growled down the driveway and into the street. The car was hungry for the pedal, itching for it, edgy. I threw my arm across the top of his seat behind his shoulder. He grinned and asked if I was ready. I nodded and gripped the door with one hand and the back of his seat with the other before we jumped and that untamed devil roared away from his house and his life and we yelled and whooped over the engine and the wind and the darkness as we blasted out, out into a suddenly wide world.

*