The blue car is my nemesis. It flouts the rules–ignores the Do Not Enter sign, blows past the Yield, speeds down the narrow one-way alley sandwiched between the garages and drives. Its engine revs, its music blasts, its rolled-up tinted windows like sunglasses on the young, too hip and insolent to look a person in the eye.
I’d restrained myself from raising my fist into the air and shaking it in the time-worn salute of the old and crotchety. I’d considered calling the police, but I hadn’t wanted to sound like another helpless blue-hair, mewling about a little noise in the neighborhood.
So today I have a plan. I hobble down my driveway, a yellow pack of stickies and a pen jammed into my housecoat pocket. I’ll get the license plate number and THEN call the police. This way, I’ll have something to offer. Assuming I can see the plates. Those black blobs blipping across my eyes–floaters, they’re called–like to sashay by at the most inconvenient times. But I’m determined to at least try.
My garbage can, empty after the morning pick-up, squats like a big, green sentinel at the drive’s edge. The can, its handle jutting like a collarbone, reaches almost to my shoulder. I lean an elbow on it. I have all day.
Mr. Meyer waddles over, his dog Ferdinand in tow. I turn away. Where are those floaters when I need them? Mr. Meyer is likable enough, until he begins rambling about how Ferdinand was once a great show dog–how judges gasped in awe, fans applauded and a few women even swooned at the mere sight of him. I find it all hard to believe. The creature on the leash looks like the fluff and stuff a person scrapes out of a dryer’s lint trap. Only with a couple of teeth.
But I don’t say anything. Just like I didn’t say anything when Abby asked if I liked her new pin, the one resembling a gold roach crawling on her bosom. Just like I didn’t say anything when the paperboy tossed my paper in the wet grass. Just like I didn’t say anything about the blue car. I’d always thought that once I became an old lady, I’d speak my mind, polite society be damned. I’d always thought that was one of the benefits of growing old. Instead, I keep quiet, not wanting to draw attention to myself, not wanting to offend, not wanting to annoy anyone with comments from my allegedly atrophying brain.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Popple.” Mr. Meyer tugs Ferdie’s leash with a feeble arm. Ferdie flops on the pavers.
“Mr. Meyer.”
“Do you need some assistance with your trash can?”
“No, thank you. I’m just leaning on it. Waiting.”
“Well, then, we’ll just wait with you.” He grins, yellow teeth too small for his big round face. White wisps of hair, aided by a cool breeze, escape his roughened scalp. They wave at me, happy to be free from the comb-over. Ferdie makes a noise between a gasp and a fart. I wrinkle my nose at the pair of them.
“What is it we’re waiting for?”
“That blue car, the one that races through here going the wrong way. I’m going to get the plates and report it.”
“How exciting!” He looks up and down the alley. “You know, on TV, it’s always the elderly neighbor whom the detectives interview.”
“Hmm.”
“I suppose it’s because the elderly are always home, looking out the window, keeping an eye on things.” He chuckles. “True enough.”
“Well, that’s just silly. I’m not always looking out my window. Are you?”
He purses his flabby lips in thought. “No-o-o.”
“See. And why are they only watching the crime? Why not try and stop it?”
“Why? Because they’re old, Mrs. Popple. We’re old. What should we all do? Drag our oxygen tanks out into the front yard to confront a gunman? Wave our walkers at hoodlums stealing our hubcaps?” He shakes his head. “Leave the crime-fighting to the young people. We’re out of the action, Mrs. Popple. Join me on the sidelines, enjoy the view.”
An engine growls in the distance.
“Oh, get ready,” Mr. Meyer says. “You get the letters, I’ll get the numbers.”
The car’s radio bombards us with bass, the noise bounces off the garages’ walls. I reach for the pen in my pocket, then stop. The nose of the car pokes around the corner. I slide my hand along the garbage can’s handle. The car turns and heads toward us, its blue snout low to the ground like a rutting pig.
I shove the garbage can out into the alley, my flabby arm surprising me with its strength. The can rolls on its two back wheels, then settles.
The car’s brakes shriek as it pulls up short, just shy of smashing the can. The music stops, the sound cut as if cleaved with an axe. The quiet hangs over us.
My heart thuds. My throat squeezes out my breath like an over-wrung toothpaste tube. Mr. Meyer moans, and Ferdie whimpers. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
What have I done? With trembling fingers I reach out… to do what? Take it back? Ask forgiveness?
But then the car seems to shiver on its tires. It jerks its way into reverse and skulks back the way it came, an animal with its tail between its legs.
“Bravo, Mrs. Popple. Bravo!” Mr. Meyer claps. Even Ferdie yips, and lets loose a puddle of piddle.
I clench those trembling fingers into a fist and raise it in the air, shaking it at the sky in the salute of the old and crotchety… and triumphant.
Madeline Mora-Summonte writes from one extreme to the other–from flash fiction to novels. She lives in Florida, with her husband.
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26 Responses to “THE SALUTE OF THE OLD AND CROTCHETY • by Madeline Mora-Summonte”
Comments
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June 16th, 2008 at 3:25 am
Nice, Madeline. A solid piece of writing with a delightful character. I gave it a four.
K.C.
June 16th, 2008 at 4:45 am
Five from me, Madeline. And a clenched fist way up high. Love it!!
mike
June 16th, 2008 at 5:18 am
Madeline, you’ve been looking at the world through my eyes, especially those Floaters! Your story reminds me of what the great Canadian poet/song-writer, Leonard Cohen says: “I ache in the places where I used to play.”
June 16th, 2008 at 5:19 am
Love this story!
Bonnie!
June 16th, 2008 at 5:37 am
Well done.
June 16th, 2008 at 5:54 am
Thank you all! Glad you enjoyed it.
June 16th, 2008 at 8:08 am
I really enjoyed this one. I love the narrator’s spunk!
June 16th, 2008 at 8:21 am
Harold Walters – ROCK ON! The Tower of Song – everybody should listen to Leonard
Madeline, I loved it – of course that wouldn’t really happen. Unfortunately a mouthful of abuse would be the least you could expect. I’d be with Ferdie: -yips, and lets loose a puddle of piddle – goes with the floaters
Appreciation, Oonah
June 16th, 2008 at 9:05 am
Stick it to the (young) Man!
Nice job!
June 16th, 2008 at 9:30 am
I LOVED this story, Madeline…good for you and spunky Mrs. Popple!
Soooo proud!!
June 16th, 2008 at 9:38 am
You all are just making this one of the best Mondays ever! Thanks!
June 16th, 2008 at 10:03 am
I love it Madeline. It’s got so much going for it: strong, fun voice, a spunky main character, one obstacle after another (floaters, the cops, fear of offending, the annoying neighbor and his dog) thrown in her way, her courage, and triumph! The fact that you’ve created a story with set-up and pay-off, a climax, and a resolution. Excellent flash.
June 16th, 2008 at 10:38 am
The best story in weeks! LOVED it–and I’m not old and crotchety. I’m in awe of your technique; it is SO hard to intertwine imagery and metaphors, etc. into writing and achieve the right balance. The writing is so mature, just like the character. You did a great job making the ending unpredicatable. Fantastic writing. Great humor.I’m jealous.
June 16th, 2008 at 12:41 pm
Well i cant say anything the people above havent already said.
5 stars….
June 16th, 2008 at 12:54 pm
Bravo! If I didn’t know how old you are, I would think that you were writing from experience (old and chrotchety). Mrs. Popple was great – good for her!
5 stars work!
June 16th, 2008 at 1:23 pm
Good story — although I still hope I’m dead before I get really old (I’m just old).
June 16th, 2008 at 1:57 pm
Hey, I like to think we all have a little Mrs. Popple in us, no matter how old (or young) we are.
All of your comments are so appreciated!
June 16th, 2008 at 7:48 pm
Maddie,
You know as your parents we always loved your writing, but we are so happy that so many others love it also.
June 17th, 2008 at 6:54 am
Wonderful. Lively. Great use of imagery. Certainly triumphant. Insightful from an elderly viewpoint, even though author is young. Clearly and cleverly shows triumph of strength of purpose over fear of action.
June 17th, 2008 at 10:06 am
Great characters, great story, great humor! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think YOU were a crochety old lady, too. But I DO know better. You’re neither old NOR crochety! And that means you have to be a pretty good writer to convince people that you ARE someone you are NOT. Nice job! And Congrats!
June 17th, 2008 at 11:37 am
Everything has already been said. Well done.
June 18th, 2008 at 12:24 pm
Mrs. Popple is one of the most unique older characters I’ve met in a long time. The ending was a surprise to me and I think it was a surprise to her.
June 19th, 2008 at 5:50 pm
Yips and piddle! That is not what I hear Thursday mornings. Great job. Keep it coming
June 20th, 2008 at 7:15 pm
Wonderful story Madeline, and I look forward to reading others. Congrats!
June 20th, 2008 at 11:04 pm
A wonderful story to read on a rainy morning. Loved it. I’ll five it five.
June 25th, 2008 at 6:39 pm
”a puddle of piddle” is the best line of heard in ages. Your characters are so very human, even the faceless driver of the intrusive blue car.
Bonita