You are currently browsing the daily archive for August 8th, 2007.
I spent my high school years living in small town America, and on a smaller scale, the “better” side of town. When I now watch suburban dramas like Desperate Housewives, I think back to where I used to live, my parent’s street, and only imagine what special brands of crazy lurks beyond the surrounding adobe coloring, the lawn that is just so, and the immaculately cleaned cars. And then I wonder about the times when it spills out onto the streets.
I helped sell my Dad’s truck yesterday, leaving be what that means, I did resolve a longtime mystery. After having the truck parked next to a bigger street overnight, around 10 o’clock the next morning we got a flurry of calls.
Driving out there, my Mom and I seal the deal with a fresh-faced boy, too clean to be a cowboy, yet with too much grit to be a jock. His very first vehicle purchase as he heads into high school, accompanied with his mother and his father, a county sheriff deputy.
As we make the arrangements for payment, the boy is to follow us to our house after he gets a deposit for the truck from the bank. The deputy pulls out a notepad from the beige pocket below his badge. I quickly write down the address to the house and hand it back to him. His eyes widen as he looks at my writing on the sheet.
“Oh that street,” he says with a bit of amusement and disdain. “Us cops do know that street. That’s the street we had to keep arresting that old, naked lady.”
My Mom and I flick our heads toward each other and murmur, “Ahhhh…ha!”
