40 Miles and a Lemonade

She had told me about it the day before.  And it was just my kind of ridiculous.  

So I had to make it happen.  There really wasn’t fuck all else to do with the morning, beyond a few errands and the lingering angst of the tin waiting to be kicked. 

But that was still later’s problem when I first hit the road.  And I was determined to make the most of the day.  Because just like I tell everyone who will listen, life is much more fun when you say “yes.”

It didn’t matter that I would be driving over 40 miles round trip.  Or that I planned on dropping a 3,000% markup on a single glass of lemonade.  I told her I would be there.  And so, I was.

I am, after all, a fox of his word.  And it’s important that she trusts me.

A little green car rolled up under a big blue Michigan sky.  And then we stood in the shade over the driveway.  I drank a cup of lemonade as we chatted about work.

The little ones scurried around delightfully underfoot.  Some were shy; some engaged right away.  But they all stood unblemished by the adult topics punctuating our “grown up” conversation.  They remained pure enough to absorb fully the simple joy of a Midwestern summer lemonade stand.

And I envied them that innocence.

I had also almost forgotten just how much toddlers remind me of drunken midgets.  Something about the way they sway and stutter around just cracks me up.  Or how they set themselves back upright after a gentle driveway tumble, that two-handed push up with a little butt in the air, had me dying.  But only after observing calming reassurances that they weren’t actually injured.

A lunch alarm chimed.  It was time for her to feed a herd of happy, sticky faces.  So a final hug until we would meet again next at work.  And then I headed up that windy road looping back north to The  City.

It was a different route trailing past familiar places.  I didn’t want the same old path to a well-traveled stop.  So I wound the curves running parallel to 127.  Fighting the inconvenient STOP signs appearing unexpectedly out of the corn waiting to be harvested.  Dodging that inward loneliness I always feel whenever I am forced to leave a happy place behind my tires.

It was time to focus instead on the hunt.

I admittedly missed it on the first pass of the aisles.  But my typer “Spidey senses” said check again, idiot. And being one to always trust those instincts, I made another pass.

Hidden out of place with the tools and other household nonsense, I spied the case.  From the latch, I knew it was a Royal.  But I didn’t remember ever seeing a case that was crinkle painted at the factory before.

Inside that case was a Quiet DeLuxe from the 40s. It was a surprisingly nice typer for that brand, which I generally find a little too stiff and stuffy.  You can tell with the strike of the first key that those machines were designed for serious business conducted by serious people.

And I don’t ever want to be serious.  

Not to that level, anyway.  That makes you rigid.  And rigidity, more than anything else, is what makes you old.

I prefer a less stuffy machine. With a softer feel.  Because I’m a sloppy typist and often need that extra bit of wiggle in order to get into a decent two-fingered rhythm.  But at a Goodwill price of $8.29, I also couldn’t leave that machine behind.

With a hatchback full of new old typewriter smell, I had one last ridiculous errand left to run.  The delivery of my “Artist Statement” to the gallery ahead of the upcoming show.

An event which I still think is weird.  But is going to happen all the same.  Because I am determined to be nothing if not fearless in my pursuit of bringing some sort of joyful legacy into the world.  Preferably one that’s as farcical as possible.

I admittedly attempted a brief nap ahead of the stress involved in competently kicking the tin.  But the broken Boulevard construction noise pulled me back from the drift.  And that jarring transition made me feel claustrophobic.  

So I stepped out, with a pack full of ramp kit, not exactly sure what to expect from The City.  But it had to be better than getting stuck inside my head.

Somehow, I ended up at a favorite cemetery 

And yeah, you read that right.  I happen to love cemeteries.  

They are always quiet.  And beautifully tended.  I find them a peaceful green breath amongst the usual concrete clutter of urban sprawl.  With the added bonus that people are pretty much bound by universal cemetery etiquette to just leave you the fuck alone. 

I walked first by the river.  And then I sat in a shady spot under the exact kind of tree you are imagining as I write the words “cemetery oak.”

It was a temporary tapping-out designed to help me gather my thoughts.  And to get myself grounded again as I sat, pondering what was supposed to come next. Wondering what else The City had in store for me.  Curious about who is actually going to show when it’s time to take in the art.

Then it suddenly dawned on me where I was sitting. 

I was surrounded by children. 

Children mostly from the mid 60s.  As I walked the rows of low, mowable markers, I noticed that some lived only a few days.  Others had a single date designating the individual tragedy of a family’s collapse of joy.  Only a handful made it beyond a single year.

Little carved lambs and bears attempted to brighten the meaning.  But they missed their intended mark.  And somehow made it even more sad.  Probably because I did the quick mental math as I walked, eventually carrying the realization that the parents who had conceived them were probably buried somewhere nearby themselves.

So I read their names as I wandered slowly up and down the too many rows.  Read them out loud to no one. Because I wanted them to feel the comfort of acknowledgement, even if it sprang from a well-intentioned stranger.  Because considering the amount of time that has passed, there was no guarantee that there is even anybody left alive who might remember them.

And the combined weight of all those little names broke my heart. 

Those are the names that would never get to be carved into the bark. Because they had instead been carved into Michigan limestone. Or imported marble.

I bent over a few and cleaned the tree clutter off their memory.  Then I went back and sat under that towering oak.  In the solitude of my silence, I let my heart ache for the little ones I would never know.

And for the ones that I once did.

I know she doesn’t want me to smoke.  

But under those circumstances, I felt that the familiar burning of an expensive crutch was somehow warranted.  So I abused that thoughtful combustion into the final scene.  The one screened right before the smash cut back to the loud and abrasive real world.

Because there was still that winged tin to kick. And it was a turn around night, which always adds an extra dimension of suck.  I had to get my head back in the game.  Because I take the safety of my crew seriously. 

It was a lot to absorb on a random Michigan Thursday.  Over 40 miles traveled.  Pictures drawn; pictures gifted. A delicious lemonade consumed against the backdrop of meaningful driveway conversation. A solid typewriter rescued.  A quick peek at my art hanging on an actual gallery’s wall. 

And one broken heart.  Limping along, just like the rest.  

The one still out driving, looking for that way back home…

About Typewriter Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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