VW

How lame! Here is a little something I wrote in my senior year of high school. Through the wonders of modern technology, it is now posted here for you to read. I wrote this one day instead of paying attention to Miss Bowman’s English class just to see if a girl named Karin France would like it.

Somewhere in America there is a boy who has stopped his red rag-top VW by the side of the road, and is sitting on its hood. There is an age beyond his sixteen years that can be seen deep within his darkish eyes. The same old, dark eyes betray the naive dreams of playing baseball for the Boston Red Sox; a trademark “B” cap is shoved down over his brown straw hair probably to shield his eyes from the setting Florida sun.

He spits out the gum he’s been chewing since Daytona and licks his lips. They’ve become dry and chapped after six hours of driving with the top down, but the lip balm is sitting at home in a box of yesterdays - along with his first racquetball racquet, his ancient collection of Superman comics, and his train set. There isn’t much of a breeze and the heat feels even more stifling in the silence. He fumbles through the cassettes in the back seat (more than three hundred of them) and finds Yes’ 90125, one of his favorites.

He inserts the tape and the custom speakers (they cost him nearly five months’ pay) come to life with “Hearts.” There isn’t much chance of disturbing anyone - just orange trees row upon row in every direction. He hadn’t been passed by another car for hours. The solitude is comforting, but the bare trees seem foreboding and scary.

Not until the goosebumps form on his arms is he cold enough to put on his beaten leather jacket. The coat is worn from its frequent use and many memories cling to it (and if it could talk it could tell a million stories). His hands are numb and he puts them into his pockets and he feels a folded paper with one of his thawing fingers. With a curiosity that isn’t he unfolds the note. The girl’s handwriting read, “David, never forget me, I love you forever.” He seems drained. Something goes out of him as he gets behind the wheel. The music misses a beat as he turns the key in the ignition. He pulls onto the road - quickly. He tosses the balled-up note behind him onto the dusty, deserted road. He can leave it behind, but no matter how fast he drives, he can’t outrace the speeding tears.

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