BANANA CREAM SODA [Chapter 9]
On top of being the ugliest structure in the neighborhood, with cracking paint that resembled a bottle blonde with a fake tan, the old house also didn’t have sufficient insulation. If there was any at all. So, when the furnace stopped blowing, the temperature inside would drop rapidly. On top of that, the thermostat would wait until the room temperature dipped to almost ten degrees below where the heat was set before kicking on. This meant that, for several months out of the year, everyone was cold most of the time.
The worst part, for Kirby, was that the chill caused his hands to cramp. This made drawing a slow and uncomfortable task. Not even sitting directly on the floor vent made much of a difference. Frustrated, he tossed the sketch book onto his bed and headed out to the kitchen to make a scalding hot cup of tea to use as a hand warmer.
Despite it being late morning, the house was dark because the sky was threatening rain. Which it seemed to do for about two hundred days every year. Besides being dark, the place was also weirdly quiet. There weren’t two different songs blasting from two different bedrooms while the TV roared for attention. The air wasn’t thick with candy-scented nicotine vapors or the aroma of whatever foot in an armpit smelling food Paul was always cooking.
No one else was home. It was Thanksgiving Day and the other housemates had family within at least reasonable driving distance.
Kirby turned on the kitchen light and then immediately turned it back off, remembering that David had replaced the burned out bulb with a sickeningly yellow bug light. It was the only unused light bulb he could find. The water from the tap tasted like bandages smelled if it wasn’t left to run for around ten seconds. While he waited, Kirby cautiously rearranged the dirty dishes so there would be space to fit the kettle under the faucet, mindful of the collection of knives that had been inexplicably placed handles down in the garbage disposal drain.
This was when he heard Calliope shout, “Oh, for unlawful carnal knowledge!” which prompted him to glance out through the kitchen window, to see her standing where her yard met the street, glaring down in shock and awe at the plastic dart gun in her hand. This was clearly going to be an interesting story, so he raced back to his room to throw on a pair of shoes and a coat, and then moved just as quickly to get outside.
At first he saw nothing more out of the ordinary than his lovely friend in her unseasonable pink floral sun dress and fingerless fishnet gloves. As he stepped closer, he understood the source of her dismay. His household’s mailbox was resting, post intact, on its side in their yard. Attached to it was a single polystyrene projectile with a suction cup tip.
“I would apologize,” she offered, “if I knew how it happened.”
Kirby’s best guess was that one of the many party guests had, at some point in the past, driven into it and unseated it, but in an effort to cover up the accident they had stood it back up and wedged the base in place somehow. The people who came there to drink had done far greater damage over the years. For example: The door between the back yard and the garage had still not been found.
“I’ll just say a car skidded into it,” he suggested as he pulled the toy dart free so there would be no evidence to the contrary. As he stepped across the street to return her ammunition, he realized that the copper colored, 1971 Volvo was not in their driveway. “Where’s your dad? He isn’t trying to do his shopping on Thanksgiving morning, is he?”
“Frank’s at work.”
“Why?” He considered it and answered himself with, “Oh yeah. Prepping for Black Friday. Like always. Is he at least coming home to make a nice dinner?”
“He got me a frozen turkey dinner.” Not wanting to sound ungrateful, she added, “One of the fancy kind.”
Unfortunate, but a window of opportunity. Bashfully, but not certain if he was being authentic about it, Kirby suggested, “There’s an Indian joint not far from here. Maybe a two mile walk. I was gonna head down there and grab lunch. Would you like to come?”
“I’ve never tried Indian food.”
“Then you should come,” he concluded. “Let me go throw on some nice clothes. What would you like me to wear?”
“Wear whatever. You always look cool.”
“Alright,” he doubted that. “I’ll grab you in about fifteen minutes.”
“You’ll grab me?” Her eyebrow arched playfully.
Kirby didn’t give her an answer. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the house looking, as she noted, “like a sexy professor” in his brown, corduroy blazer over basically the same thing he wore every day. He did not grab her, as promised. He wondered if she was disappointed, or if she was having a minor anxiety attack over what to do if he did grab her.