One Summer Day 1970
Angie
I’m three three three one-two-three and nobody knows I’m up up up – Mommy sleeping sad in her big bed. Daddy at work – work work work after bacon and eggs and coffee at the restaurant. Love Daddy – I’m Daddy’s little girl. Climb one-two-three shelves for cereal in the cupboard – bowl spoon milk from the frigerator sometimes smells bad. Then turn the knob all-by-myself open the big door open the screen door out the door. No shoes no socks my feet my toes wiggle in the grass wet wet wet. Run run run to the barn pee in my big girl training pants and toss em in the weeds every-Mommy’s-bad-word-morning-when-will-she-learn. Bare bottom who cares I don’t care no one cares maybe grandma cares. Horses waiting for me me me at the gate one big one nice one mean one brown one white and a pony-just-my-size. And I pet their noses oh my gosh soft so soft and I feed them green grass even the white mean-to-grown-ups one who could eat my tiny fingers anytime it wants to snap-just-like-that but it doesn’t – never never never will. My big brodder’s watching me from his window thinks he’s the boss of me but isn’t the boss of me. Face scrunched and big frown always worry worry worry.
Then my dog friends are waiting every-morning-same-place-same-time. Smokey knows only one trick shake shake shake the neighbor boys taught him a long time ago when he was my brodder’s dog. And Sammy with curly part-poodle hair. And the next-door-neighbor’s big big big red Ireesh Sitter with eyes that say something to me. Just us we all go running in the green grass taller than me and when I fall down my dog friends wait for me to get up and catch up. I just-know-it-lunch-time and cartoons and fight-every-Mommy’s-bad-word-day-driving-me-crazy-brodder time – who’s not the boss of me. And at nighty-night time Mommy awake – not a morning mommy. And Daddy’s home – I’m Daddy’s little girl Daddy’s home! Brodder shuts up but sometimes a story. Mommy finds at bath time tics in my ears burrs in my hair from the tall green grass. Daddy mad Brodder says told-you-so. Tics and burrs just like Smokey Sammy and the big big big red Ireesh Sitter who don’t get baths or cartoons so what’s the big deal?
David
Not doing it. Not looking. Not paying any attention. I’m not the grown up this time. She won’t listen to me anyway. What do I care? Just read, read my Classic Comics – Robinson Crusoe in my bed and get up any ol’ time I want to. Glue my model B-25 Mitchell. Bikes, forts, or look for crayfish and salamanders in the creek with Tom or Joel. There’s the door. She’s out the door already. Where’s Mom? Did she eat anything? None-of-my-business. And there she is – gonna get her fingers bit off by the mean horse. Then she’ll be running half-naked around the neighborhood with the dogs. God! So embarrassing. Someone’s going to kidnap her. Good! Ugh! Okay-fine. Get up. Go find her. Dammit.
Janice
There’s his van. Dan’s gone to work. Too bright, too early. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Last night – what was that about? First time in a month. Just needed a good, hard screw. Friggin’ cramps coming on. Just a little while longer. She’ll-be-fine-David’s-up-he’ll-look-after-her. I didn’t sign up for this shit. They’re driving me crazy – fight, fight, fight every friggin’ day. So hot. Probably pissed her pants again. Every-damn-morning-when-will-she-learn? Maybe she’ll get lost or something – or something. Just gone. How bad could it be? Christ! Stop it! I can’t. I just can’t. Lunch, laundry, clean something, endless afternoon, friggin’ TV. Maybe I’ll go back to pressing shirts all day. Which hell? Door number one or door number two? Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Supper – gotta think of it now, now – not now – now. Then, as soon as the table is cleared, Dan’s off to the garage working on that friggin’ car. Friggin’ mass on Sunday, dinner with his parents – that bitch. Friggin’ old car club. Friggin’ picnics and potato salad. Friggin’ canasta with the girls. Always someone’s friggin’ birthday. Those damn tics in her ears, burrs in her hair. Where does she pick up this shit? I swear I’ll kill myself. Can’t cry. Not going to cry today. Save it for . . . when? Huh? When?
Dan
Told her the kids are up. Down the driveway, the DMZ between everything. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Hungry – maybe hash browns with the eggs today. Phillis will open up. Need to order dry cleaning fluid and shirt boxes. Ralph sober? Need to do something about that. Maggie needs to dump that boyfriend. Bad for her. So hot – with the presses like working in an oven. Delivery route away from the store. What am I doing picking up and cleaning other people’s clothes? Christ. Janice is what, blue? Last night – what was that about? Pick up another transmission for the ’33 Ford – makes three. Tires for the Model A. Work on it tonight after supper. No, it’s Thursday – gotta do payroll. Maybe I’ll get the part – Harry the Horse. Guys and Dolls. Podunk Ohio isn’t New York. If only I’d gotten on that bus. No wife, house, kids, cleaners, yard to mow. An apartment, ride the subway– meet a nice guy. He’d have some stupid little dog and I would love him, and I would have him all to myself. Who knows? Harry the Horse Off-Broadway. I’d be good. Maybe great. Or Hollywood. I could have been another Dean Martin. I know it. I can feel it. I got to dry clean Paul Lynde’s blazer once. That was something. Wasn’t it?
David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com
Biographical Information: David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
