Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 5
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
Jake and Grandma ate the same thing every Sunday, too. Foster’s Freeze. Jake a cheese burger — no tomato, but everything else, including extra pickles — hot, crispy fries dipping in stiff puddle of ketchup, and a strawberry shake, with chunks from full strawberries clogging the end of his straw. Tomatoes; no, thank you: ketchup; yes, please! Best lunch of the year not on a day called Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas.
No longer a surprise, but it shocked Jake the first time or two that Grandma ordered a hand-battered, deep-fried hot dog on a stick. The old fashioned way, she said. That was it for Grandma. No fries. No shake or soda pop. Just a cup of water and mustard in a paper tray to roll the length of her corn dog yellow.
When Jake asked her why she always ordered only a corn dog, his grandma said she didn’t need any extra calories, answering the only part; then she smiled and said she liked it, good memories, made her feel like a little girl ordering and eating a hot dog on a stick, reminding her of going to the country fair and carnival with her family. Her dad would buy her and her mom the fair food, while her mom — Jake’s Great Grandma Dottie — dished up mustard in generous dollops. They’d make a mess of their smiling faces, and they’d laugh. Especially when dad would lick the mustard off mom’s face with a playful kiss they all enjoyed. It happened every year. A tradition. Family tradition.
Sounded fun to Jake. But foreign and different than the family he had. Other than Grandma. They were building tradition, he and Grandma. Breakfast, Church, and Lunch. Crepes, God, and Fried Food. Jake liked that tradition.
The afternoon walk home settled the food in his full stomach, and as soon as they got home Jake would thank Grandma and grab his basketball and head out, fueled to play b ball for hours into the evening. Uninterrupted. Not hungry. No school. Free play.
On a certain Sunday afternoon Jake hoped he’d find some kids about his age to pick up with at the park, wanting to play full court, play as a team, prepping for playing for his school team. That was the goal, his goal, to play for the school team. His school. It would help make the school his school if he could make the team. His first team ever.
He searched for a ragtag team that Sunday to help him in his quest to make it official.
Reaching the park put his plans further into fantasy. People were already playing: and they weren’t his age.
The guys hooping looked like high school to him. Maybe a junior higher or two, but Jones didn’t recognize anyone from his school. He doubted they’d let him into the game.
Jake kept moving closer to the game. Watching the action, they looked quick; definitely older than him. But quickly he realized the game being played was four on four full court, not fives.
Jake glanced around, instinctively scouting for another player to pair himself with to fill out the game. No one.
He didn’t wait long, though, before a high schooler, no, maybe a guy already out of high school, sauntered up in loose, free-flowing basketball clothes. He didn’t dribble a ball up, didn’t even have a basketball, but he obviously expected to ball.
Jake didn’t figure it a natural pairing, but he did his best to be seen and look ready to join in.
To be continued …
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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