Title: Pounding Nickels
Words: 850
Draft/Editing: Rough draft
Author: Steven Digre
Copyright: Feb. 2004

Abstract: This is an unrealized novel "false-start." In the end, I wrote this short chapter for my brothers with the hope of rekindling memories of the old neighborhood. I plan to revisit this subject matter in the near future, perhaps in novella form.

Pounding Nickels

1984

Deep-azure rain sprinkled over the quiet neighborhood. The faint sound of early commuters broke the eerie calm. One in ten houses lit the cul-de-sac as the suburb came alive. The hint of brewing coffee wafted from the cracked windows. This was nirvana. The early eighties middle income life. Three bedroom ramblers, all occupied with a mother, father and two point two children. America had battled the cold war, the nuclear arms race was headed full steam. The economy had lifted from its late seventies recession and life had returned to a post World War II economic state. Houses that consumed the neighborhood were on the verge of exploding; three bedrooms would turn to five, all with a better view. Two car garages would grow to three, room enough for a twenty-foot luxury boat that would touch the waters of the Mississippi twice, maybe three times a summer.

Shuffling footsteps scraped over the dewy steal-gray sidewalks leaving a winding and bending path as if left by a drunk returning from a night of lost memories. The footsteps  turned and dragged over the recently laid tar towards the white house on the corner. Three bedrooms up and two down, the house bulged with the family of six. The yard was well maintained yet littered with bicycles and things boys liked to play with. One stair to climb, a shuffle and knock at the door. A second knock, impatient as the sound of lumbering footsteps pushed the 1968 wooden staircase giving creaks and moans as the nails jostled and held the structure. A third knock. The door flew open.

“Come in Lonnie,” the mother said appearing more irritated than tired.

Sheepishly he walked in and led himself to the basement. Mother turned and made her way to the kitchen, where the sound of rattling pans and dishes would soon echo through the house. So, the wake up call began. Like it or not, there was school today. Opening bell was two hours away.

#

Clanking metal spikes drove through the floor and into the small, poorly finished bedroom. The teenager, angry at everything rolled on his side and buried his head in the pillow. The clangs rose, ray guns fired, pans struck the stoves metal grids and alien intruders spoke. The beating red alarm clock read 5:45am. The teenager pushed the pillow into his ear.

#

“I’m going to be late,” Brad said tossing a cold glass of water over the shower curtain and down his brother’s back. Mark screeched high-pitched as his voice had not changed, though was expected to within the next twelve months. Mark dove back under the warm water as he yelled some tired words.

Brad filled the glass again and sent the cold-water raining down. Mark pulled the curtain and lunged at him, wildly flailing his arms trying to make contact. Brad ducked and yelled, “Dad.”

Father rushed to the doorway and gave the boys a stare. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. This scene unfolded everyday. Half-dressed the father rubbed his ear, stared at the boys, paused then turned away. Mark dashed down the hallway, half wrapped in a towel, to small to cover the crack in his rear end.

“Breakfast,” Mom yelled in a voice that climbed an octave in the offer.

Brad jumped into the bathroom, locked the door, undressed and hopped in the still running shower. Freezing water pelted his skin as his body jerked giving his left foot a slip on the porcelain tub, then catching himself on the towel rack. “Jerk,” he said under his breath as he stepped out of the tub and killed the freezing source. Brad shook his head knowing Mark had pulled the same trick on him yet again then smiled a small amount at his brothers return as he adjusted the water to blazing hot. His body warmed under the river of calm as Mom called again.

#

Brad finished his business in the bedroom and shuffled down the stairs, skidding his threadbare socks over the worn carpeted stairs turning and slipping on the linoleum floor as he made his way to the table. A stout black lab rose to greet its owner, Brad patted its head then dove into his cold plate. Alien space ships landed in the basement. Father turned towards the noise and asked, “Lonnie?”

Mom shook her head and walked to the head of the basement stairs. “Lonnie are you hungry?” she called out.

In a flash the basement fell silent. Within seconds footsteps made their way slowly, cautiously up the stairs and a boy not more than ten, hair greasy and unkempt, gave a guilty smile appearing from the stairwell. Lonnie stood there, laughed a guilty moment then shrugged his shoulders and walked to the open seat at the table. Five focused mouths dug into the cold eggs before them and were washed down with more pulp than orange juice as Lonnie sat with the family.

Contact:
E-mail:
Steve: steve@stevedigre.com

Back to:  Writing Front Page, Music Front Page, Life Front Page