#4 Rainbow's Ride

Version 1:

Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass there stood a ten-foot high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out candles and dead flowers and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!

It was August, in the afternoon and too hot to think about doing anything other than sweating. She was tired of being hot. She was fed up with the smell of hotdogs and dog shit. She wanted to be somewhere where the sun was filtered through green leaves and there was no one underneath her floor pounding out the bass line of some crap wannabe song that no one would ever listen to or give a fuck about. Rejoice! indeed. It was time to go somewhere new. She got up off the sidewalk where she’d been lying, right cheek to the pebbled concrete, and considered options.

The beach. That would cost a subway ride and about 2 hours, if the shuttle was running. Or a ride into the city a walk downtown and the ferry, plus what, $6.50? She couldn’t remember. Blazing sun the whole way around Coney Island. Coney Island was a beach. She was at Coney Island. What the fuck. She shook her head. Right. Here she was, at the beach. That had been the plan all along. Right. Ok. Up you get. She stood up. Something caught her attention. “Hey lady!” a Spanish-looking guy was yelling at her. “Yes?” she replied, genteelly, turning to look at him square on. “You ok?” he asked.

He was cute, all floppy t-shirt and tight jeans. He was definitely a first. How many young people, especially male ones, noticed a middle aged white lady with a fat ass and dirt on her cheek from the sidewalk. Girls might say something to themselves about how they would never let themselves get that way, no way no how. She’d said the same thing. She considered sitting back down just to see if he’d come over and help her up. She decided to do it. He came over. “What’s going on? He asked. She contemplated his forearms. “Want a hand?” he asked.

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Version 2:

When the ride ended, she was lifted again. The kid slid her boneless body onto a soft pile of clothing among the boxes in the garage. He pulled an old coat over the top, creating a cave that emanated the sweetness of old ladies who frequently powdered themselves—a light rose motif that played ironically well in the deep recesses of Rainbow’s ancestral brain. The pizza kid lifted her head to help her lap water from a hubcap. He broke bits of pepperoni and crust into bite-sized pieces and left them where her tongue could reach them. He stroked between her eyes and down her nose. Much later, she heard him practicing his orations like songs. Like monks chanting in the distance, they were a comfort.