Latchkey Kids
Was dreaming of being a kid in summer for this one. Written in my writing workshop and not really edited, so...
In the eighties we ran free in the summers. Jersey corn getting stuck in our teeth at dinnertime. Say what you will about Jersey— its clogged turnpikes and smog and density— but you can't beat the corn. The sweetest kernals, creamy and crisp, golden yellow. And the Jersey tomatoes— plump and bursting at their seams. Cut open quickly in wedges by your mother with the dull kitchen knife she always complained about. But those bright red tomatoes tossed in a salad of butter lettuce, red onions, golden beets and store bought crutons were perfection. If this was your father's house you would be having ceasar salad. His famous recipe that you later learned he just ripped off the back of a bag of croutons. He made a show of it though, just like everything he did. It was a scene, as if he were the only man on earth to throw a raw egg in salad dressing. Presented it like it was the start of some five course gourmet meal. Even though what always followed was boxed pasta and bottled red sauce. But in the summer you ran free. Past the Wilson's house with the scary doberman. Cutting through Jessica's yard hoping her parents wouldn't spot you. Pedaling hard and fast to the open field, then to the woods thick with ghosts and lost children. Then clear across to the new development where the houses were all half finished. It was as if all of the workers just decided to stop at the same time, as if they saw a ghost and just up and left. Tools on the floor, cans of coke half finished. They ran for the safety of their own homes, to their la-z-boy chairs and wives making them dinner and kids screaming in the backyard. They wanted summer too. Those empty half finished houses became your summer hideout, you and your friends would spend long days there— so unaware of the danger, the nails sticking out uncovered, the unfinished wood floors not sturdy enough to hold the weight of adults. But you were 10, 11, 12— running free in the summer. No parents keeping tabs on any of you. Before cell phones, back when we knew enough to avoid weird vans and strangers with candy but would wander off-leash miles and miles from home every day. Back by dinner but never before. We were latchkey kids before there was a phrase for it and every one of us takes pride in that— wears it like a badge. Oh sure our parents barely acknowledged us but we didn't care— not than at least. We were free. Years later we'd deal with the abandonment issues, the neglect, work it out in therapy, but in the moment, racing through the suburbs on our pink panther bikes screaming at the wide open blue expanse— in that moment we were free. Floating and happy, suspended in the thick summer heat. Unaware of anything as complicated as the future.