They Wonder Why I Can't Forget 1 of 6
The sky was clear, sapphire blue that day. Summer grass sent ribbons of sweet smell on the breeze.
I was riding my bicycle down tree-shaded sidewalks, passed mass-produced two-stories in cul-de-sac clusters. I had just ridden down the hill that overlooked our neighborhood, a valley of upper-middle class suburban sprawl that had newly spread from the bloated north side of town. The neighborhood was a coil of fresh black pavement, dead ends sewn together by Elysia Street, the one real road that takes you in--then right the fuck back out. From above, the whole thing looks like a giant caterpillar lying dead in the sun.
Covered with sun bleached flower stickers, my little purple bike carried me from one end of the neighborhood to the other. I felt the pink handlebar streamers tickle my wrists as they flapped in the breeze. I passed the row of houses that belonged to the Five Families, the well-to-do stars of our county’s business and politics, of whom the locals spoke with appropriate awe and resentment. Mine is house number three.
My iPod rested in the handlebar basket, pumping cheesy Beatles songs into my ear buds.
I remember what song that was playing.
You never give me your money...You only give me your funny paper...
I remember everything.