My Own Independence Day

Here's one of my short stories that recently won an award and will soon be published. I thought it was appropriate for today....

Have a wonderful7-4. And don't drink and bottle rocket. It never fairs well....

The July sun was relentless. The air was heavy with humidity. My body was covered in sweat. I needed to be renewed, revived, replenished. I needed a Styrofoam cup of crushed ice covered in thick purple syrup.

“Mama, I'm so hot,” I whined. “I need a grape Slush Puppie.”

Mama was busy. There was laundry to fold, floors to mop, a best friend on the other end of her cordless phone that needed to talk about nothing for three hours.

I was too impatient to wait for my mother to finish her chores and drive me to the convenient store. I wanted a Slush Puppie, I needed a Slush Puppie. My insulin levels were too low for any twelve year old girl on summer vacation.  

I wiped sweat from my brow as the light bulb in my head roared to life.

“I can rollerblade to the gas station!” I exclaimed.

My hometown was small and safe, and the gas station was only a mile from my home, but I feared that my mother would shun the idea of me being alone on the mean streets.  She was so overprotective. She’d told me horrifying stories my entire life, not to make me afraid, but to keep me safe. She’d spun tales of razor blades in Halloween candy, tetanus that loomed on every rusty nail in the county and kidnappers that drove conversion vans donning mini blinds.

But Mother was busy. My whining was annoying. My sweat was dripping on her freshly mopped floor. She finally sighed and told me to go ahead, be careful, and keep an eye out for conversion vans.

I sat on the garage step and strapped on the Rollerblades, black and neon green, and I was on my way.

I zipped through the neighborhood, waving at familiar cars, petting familiar dogs along the way. The neon wheels sliced through the remains of last night’s bottle rockets and firecrackers that littered the streets. In only a few minutes, I was halfway to the gas station, halfway to the machine that dispensed frozen syrup, halfway to victory.

I passed Mrs. Suzanne’s house, her shady yard covered in Ivy, and the green wheels stumbled over a weathered crack in the old sidewalk, but I steadied myself. I made a mental note not to trip over it on the way home.

Confidence began to rise within me. I was rollerblading for my own beverage and paying for it with my hard earned allowance. I had always been a helpless mama’s baby, but now I was on my own. I beamed from ear to ear.

The gas station came into view as I rested at the top of the enormous hill. The Slush Puppie sign showcasing the dog in a blue knit hat was beckoning me, my thirst unbearable.

I began to sail down the hill, not realizing just how steep it was. Suddenly, I was out of control. I raced towards the busy traffic on Main Street. As my short life flashed before my eyes, I knew I had to grab the stop sign at the bottom of the hill so I wouldn't spill into the street and find myself stuck to the grill of a Mack truck. I reached for it, just in time, and like a crazy twelve year old fully-clothed stripper on Rollerblades, I was swinging around the pole.

I let go of the scorching metal pole and crashed to the sidewalk. My cheek was embedded in the hot pavement, and my knee began to sting. I sat up and, to my horror, noticed that my kneecap had been scraped away, gone. 

Not only had I lost my kneecap, I had lost a pint of blood and the confidence that I had possessed only moments earlier. Like the blood, tears began to stream, and I wanted my mommy.

I wanted to strip the wheels from my feet and run to the payphone beneath the Slush Puppie sign. I wanted to dump the slush money into the payphone and cry into the greasy receiver. I wanted my mommy to come and get me. I was a defenseless baby, after all.

I reached into my pocket for the crisp dollar bill and shiny quarters, but my pocket was empty. My heart began to pound and more tears began to fall. In my excitement, I had left my allowance on the garage step as I strapped the death wheels to my feet.

Defeated, broken, broke, I carefully stood and climbed the hill. I held onto mailboxes and trees, and I slowly skated home as my head hung in shame and blood trickled down my leg.

I prayed that someone- a friend, a neighbor, my grandmother, a kidnapper in a conversion van-would pass by and see me rollerblading, covered in blood, covered in tears, and offer me a ride. I prayed that one of my friends living along my route would be home so I could use their first aid kit and telephone.

I sluggishly rolled along the sidewalk, overcome with pain, my mouth dry and my face soaked in sweat and salty tears. I looked for help, but could find none. I was on the verge of collapsing beneath an aged Magnolia tree when I reached the crack in front of Mrs. Suzanne’s house.

I was halfway home, halfway to the Capri Sun in my refrigerator, halfway to the Neosporin tube and Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet, halfway to victory.  

Confidence began to emerge again. I could make it. Maybe I didn’t need my mama after all.

I didn’t frantically flag down my neighbors as their sedan cruised past me. Instead, I skated harder and faster. My arms swayed, the blood poured, but I finally turned the corner to see the purple Clematis that climbed our mailbox.

I made it. My mother’s beautiful and thirsty bed of Impatiens greeted me as I collapsed next to the green dollar bill and silver change on the garage step. I made it, sans a kneecap, three pints of blood, and the grape concoction in the Styrofoam cup.

But I made it.

Twenty years later, and I still have the scar on my knee. It reminds me of the day I grew up, the day I found my independence.