Number Three

When I was young and on my way to school most mornings, I would notice Ms. Johnson and she would notice me. Sitting on her porch, wearing her green housecoat, Ms. Johnson and her cigarette would wave.
And I would always wave back.

When I got to be around 14 and Jimmy and I would be on our way to my house late on weekend nights, whenever we saw Ms. Johnson out on the front porch of her house, Jimmy and I would grin. Ms. Johnson would always give us a smoke or two.
The first time she handed one over to us, she asked us, "Does your Mommas know you smoke?"
And Jimmy replied, "Oh yeah!"
I knew she could see Jimmy's lie written all over my face, but she let us have the cigarette anyway.

Whenever we sat with Ms. Johnson, Jimmy would tell her that he could play the harmonica. "I can play it real good," he would boast.
And she would laugh at him and lean down to turn up the little transistor radio, that she kept by her feet, and she would sing and Jimmy and I would keep time, stomping our feet and snapping our fingers and watching her breasts sway in the shadows.

Jimmy brought his harmonica out one night. When he started playing along with the radio, I just about shit my pants. Jimmy was real good. Everything seemed to disappear and I was so caught up in his sound, it could have been an hour, before I noticed Ms. Johnson was not singing.
Sometimes Ms. Johnson drank a little gin, when she sat out on her porch. Late that night, she poured Jimmy and I each a drink and we stayed out there until four in the morning, sipping the drink that drove away all the summer heat.
On the way back to my place, Jimmy said to me, "I think Ms. Johnson wanted to kiss me."

When I worked Danny's Diner late two nights a week, I could always count on Ms. Johnson to be up and out on her porch, when I was coming home.
One time I told her I could play guitar. Real good. And she leaned forward and she chuckled in my face and the taste of her gin went up my nose. It tingled. She put her hand on my knee. "Oh, darling, I always know when you lyin'!"
And I turned red and I wanted to hide, so I looked down. At the round tops of her breasts. And I wanted to sink my whole face between them. And I could not help it. My mind just kept seeing things, like my tongue all over those breasts.
And she knew exactly what I was thinking too because she laughed some more at me. "You're a sweet boy, ain't ya?"
Then she pinched my cheek and she sent me home. "Honey, time to go on back to your Momma."

It took me a long time to get good playing guitar. I almost gave up right away. My fingers bled so much. When I was 22, I came back to town for a few weeks. I brought along my guitar. I was in a band. We called ourselves the Helmet Heads. I wanted to go and tell Ms. Johnson.
She clapped her hands, when she saw me coming up her stairs. "Oh, I just knew you were coming to see me, boy! Your Momma said you were gonna be in town for awhile!"
And I played my guitar for Ms. Johnson and she sat in her chair and she smiled at me. And when I was done, she poured me a glass of gin and asked me how I liked living in the city.
"I love it," I told her. She turned on her transistor radio and we shared stories until late in the night.
And then I asked her, "Ms. Johnson, why do you sit out here all the time? What are you waiting for?"
"Fantastic," she said, she leaned over to pinch my cheek. "Now you go on home to Momma now, boy."

Jimmy called a few days ago and says to me that he is moving to Canada. Bought himself some small-town construction business. And I think to myself. Damn. There are already 400 miles between us. I ask him if Sue is happy with it all and he tells me she is, but his daughter wants to kill him. "She says she's in love."
"Ms. Johnson passed on about two weeks ago now," he tells me. He suddenly remembers.
And I am stunned and I do not know what to say. "She had great tits," I blurt out.
And Jimmy says to me, "Yeah, man. She let me touch one once, you know?"

They Just Slip Away

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

Matthew was in her car, parked behind the laundromat. He sat sideways, with his feet propped up on the dash. He smoked cigarette after cigarrette. Her 11-month old son was sleeping in the backseat. The front passenger side window was open, but just a crack. It was pissing down rain outside.
He had met her almost six months a go. She was almost five years older than him. And three months pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He worked the afternoon shift. Drove the forklift, for cans of soup. Brought home his pay check.
And he had cable TV and cigarettes. All the time.
She was easy to get along with.
He had decided love was only an action. And anyone could act.

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

He drove them out to a country road. It was after two in the morning. It was no longer raining. And it felt so good, to be behind the wheel, driving too fast. He rolled down the windows. He felt the dampness of the June night right down to his bones.
And he could do this, just drive, if he wanted to.
Yeah.
He could just drive.
She would let him too.

She thougth the baby would come, but it did not.
So, they wheeled her into the operation room.

Matthew went back to town. Pulled close to the curb, outside of the bank. At the ATM, he emptied out all but 100 dollars.
Smoking cigarettes the whole way, he took Dustin to Chicago first.
He called her seven days later.
'Where are you?' is what she asked.
And he told her.
So, she walked the mile to the bank. She ached every step. She carried her new daughter in her arms.
She put the twenty-five dollars back into the bank account, so he had enough gas money to get home.
She knew he thought love was an action. He had told her so once or twice.
She had told him she thought love was a want.
When he arrived home, they had sex.
Three months later, Matthew quit smoking.
And he took off with Dustin again.
Because he wanted to.