The Melted Half

(illustration by illy jimmy b.)

{Supportive author Trent Ables offers reflections on one of the smaller moments of life. For more info, check here for Trent's day affirmation.}

The digital-cinnamon LCD clock turned to the hour of 12:00. Realizing that this was the latest I had ever stayed up, I lazily glanced over at the green metal box hanging in the car window. The noises issuing from the battered speaker were die-cast explosions that sounded like a million Hot-Wheels being dumped onto pavement. The light from the screen sat in the reflection of the varnished hoods and chrome work, all pretending to be little movies. We were parked in a lot that had been dressed up and taken out for drinks, as it always was during the mild summer nights. I began to notice all of the smells surrounding the car. The roof had given way to the fabric that concealed it, draping the interior like a tarp covering a fresco. The blanket contained a peculiar mixture of smoke-stain and dryer-exhaust.

I leaned back in the seat spilling some of the cold and chewy popcorn into the back. I hunched over and, blindly groping the floor, tried to clean it up as best I could. I came back with a handful of sticky pennies, popcorn, and a crayon. This was a typical handful of in-car leavings, but the crayon struck me as being out of place. The family I was with had children that were not specifically of coloring age. Both of the brothers were from Florida and had motley hair cuts that reminded me of failed Keanu coif. These were not the people who would color. The gender of this crayon was ‘Cornflower.’ This color had nothing to do with corn, or my preconceived notions towards the colors of flowers. This was a nomad in the vast desert of car floor, hopelessly searching for a shred of paper to feel itself becoming on. It was getting used to the idea that no matter what the surroundings would be, it would never be remembered to these people. However it came to be settled on this short haired floor, this would be its last tour of a color duty, never embarked on. Yet here I was, holding this tool in my hand, bent over the car seat, still pretending to look for a self-created mess. I squeezed it and this became more important than the gigantic spectacle of a movie playing in front of our car windows.

I color with my wife sometimes. She has shown me the subtle art of shading, divulged the secret of consistent direction of strokes, and shown the beauty of Cornflower. The drive-in has lost its screen and been made into a parking lot. Just a regular parking lot.