Visiting Sally
by Jack Swenson
We sit on the porch, away from the bugs and out of the sun. It's hot. 93° in the shade. Sally sits in a wicker rocker fanning herself. She's gained a lot of weight. She used to have a great body; not anymore.
She seems cheery enough considering. I haven't seen her since the previous summer. Harpo was still alive then. I ask her what she's doing for fun these days. She smiles. She has a boyfriend. Carlson likes to dance, she says. Polkas. She always refers to him by his last name. The thought crosses my mind that maybe he hasn't got a first one. Or maybe his mother named him Carlson Carlson. For some reason, it irritates me that she does that. I've heard other women do it, too.
I sigh. She asks me if I want a beer. I shake my head. She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry,” she says. I smile and look away.
I look out at the street. It's mid-afternoon, and nothing is moving. No one's outside. Nothing stirs except memories. Harpo and I playing strip poker with his girlfriend in their dining room. Max and I “kidnapping” the teenage neighbor. Giving her a ride home from Dinkytown after work. Sitting on Harpo's porch, Max whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Taking her upstairs and taking off her clothes.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask. Same old, same old, she said. Buddy had a couple years of high school left. Then, who knows? Buddy was in a garage band. They were pretty good. “Soul Harbor“ they called themselves. Maybe they'd hit the big time, and she'd become a roadie. I sighed and shook my head.
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Author's Note
Actually, the band was "Soul Asylum."
Gary M. (Harpo) was a good friend. Both Gary and his son Kurt (Buddy) died way too young.
Nicely done, Jack. I find the older I get the more painful these trips down memeory lane become. . . fave
I remember them from my teens - sorry for your loss. Good piece - and I agree with MaryAnne, too. It's not always a good thing to take a trip down memory lane.
Memeory lane, yes, what MaryAnne said...
fave
I love it all but this is my favorite part:
It's mid-afternoon, and nothing is moving. No one's outside. Nothing stirs except memories. Harpo and I playing strip poker with his girlfriend in their dining room. Max and I “kidnapping” the teenage neighbor. Giving her a ride home from Dinkytown after work. Sitting on Harpo's porch, Max whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Taking her upstairs and taking off her clothes.
A strong piece, Jack. The opening - "We sit on the porch, away from the bugs and out of the sun. It's hot. 93° in the shade. Sally sits in a wicker rocker fanning herself. She's gained a lot of weight. She used to have a great body; not anymore." - puts me directly inside the piece.
The phrasing throughout - just right. I like it.
The voice really resonates with sadness and the slow motion of summer. So much said in that 3rd graf. The good do die too young. Always. Peace *
Excellent writing, compelling story, intriguing characters.
"Maybe they'd hit the big time, and she'd become a roadie."
Sounds like fun.
Very Truman Capote storyish story, Jack. So real. Could feel the heat, the rocker, all of it.
*
Jack, if Soul Harbor isn't the name of a real band, it should be! Great story. *
I love the way you stretch this small moment, making it taut with significance. Nicely done.
What everyone else said, Jack. Great one.
quietly beautiful, Jack, you always let your stories unfold so naturally, I admire that *
"Nothing stirs except memories."
You nailed it, Jack, but no surprise there.
*
Great one, Jack. *
We all die too young, and remember too clearly.
calm, somber, hot afternoon glory in the light of the setting sun. marvelous.
This has a sort of, lazy summer feel that I like. Small talk, with deeper undertones. & Always like your playfulness with names..!
Melancholy-inducing.*