Lonesome Road

Fall sauntered in with the smugness of a late but expected and honored guest, refusing to drastically alter the weather. Still, I welcome it with open arms. Briskly exiting Maplewood, I start in the direction of Another Man's Treasure, almost bumping into a downcast young man on his way in. Aware of the crate in my arms, the force of gravity tugging it downwards, I make a split second decision. "You wouldn't happen to like vinyls, would you?" He gives me a bewildered glance, and shrugs, muttering something unintelligible. "Just take them." I was about to get rid of them anyways, and it gives me one less place to go to on my way to work. The job is incredibly dull, shifting crates for 5 hours in the back of City Lights, but I hardly notice, wrapped up in my own thoughts. The man in the purple zoot suit is nowhere to be seen. At 5:00, I drift back down Milk street to the apartments, silent as a ghost. A quick glance into Freedom tattoo, just to be safe. We have a history, this street and I. Many significant things have happened here, ingrained into my memory possibly forever. I am greeted by the smell of food cooking as I approach the statue in the roundabout. Memories flicker by with the passing of the few cars.

Laughter. Burnt food. Shouting. 

My brother and I tromping through leaf piles. He turned to me, laughing. I remember tripping. Shock and pain followed. It gets less clear here... The fire was quick and unrelenting, spreading through the pile of leaves with unholy speed. We both ended up in the hospital, the cookout ended, our parents speaking with suspicion. "It just came out of nowhere." "No way it could've started just like that." But on some level, somewhere in my head, I knew. And from then on, I told myself: No more fires. No more fires.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts and whipping back to my current reality. I've been standing at the corner for a few minutes, and it's bound to attract some attention. I press forward, passing a pumpkin truck to the left of the building, and come to a stop as I take in the scene. People of all sorts gather to create indistinct chatter in the background. The parking lot is clear of cars, and the center is taken up by several grills preparing hotdogs, burgers, and the like. I'm approached by someone, but I'm still relatively lost in my thoughts. "I'm Lucille." A hand is stretched out. I shake it. "Nice to meet you, I'm Paul." But I hardly notice them, and can't recall their face a few seconds after. I need to get out of here. As the sun begins to slip downward, I hoist a pumpkin off the truck, and enter Maplewood Crest.