“Concrete Island”

By Quincer

Bob went to his first party in two years on a fall afternoon. It took place on a concrete porch that wasn’t attached to a house. And, as he later found out, there was an owner—of sorts--of this concrete porch. Sue figured there was an owner because there was a bucket full of fat orange chalk blocks—even though the label bragged, “Now with more colors!” It sat right in the middle of the concrete island, waiting for Orangie—as the owner came to be called.

Sue had moved into her house with her husband Lo six months ago—shortly after she found out they were having a baby. This was her house warming party. Yet, she admitted to them, she didn’t have the heart to move the orange chalk. Who knows if this was a little girl’s set, and she’s been looking all over for it.

Or maybe she moved--or just died.

“Why do you think Orangie is a girl?” Mar interrogated.

Sue clicked her tongue, setting herself into her husband’s ripped lawn chair after bringing out two coolers with Bob’s help.

“Well—I just do. I mean, girls love to be creative. Chalk’s kinda a girl thing, y’know?” she answered.

“But it’s orange. Orange is a boy’s color,” Bob said.

“Orange is my favorite color,” Mar bit down.

“Well, you’re not a girl,” Bob joked, then bit his lip, saying his prayers.

Bob never knew when Mar would blow up into an existential rant or something. Anyway, something brainy and stinging. There was no reason for it that Bob could figure out. For starters, Mar had something against undergarments. She hated bras and once burned her ex-boyfriend’s boxers and threw them in his face when he broke up with her. “Some make-up and jewelry every once in a while wouldn’t kill you,” he’d told her.

However, Mar barely budged. Instead, she sipped at her beer again.

“If Orangie is a child, she’s too scared to come back or too far away. Like, my husband once left cookies he had left over from his class’s Halloween party out here on the porch. But we didn’t get anything but a dead raccoon who choked on the Saran wrap!”

Bob took a big swig at the beer to keep down whatever might come up at the abhorrent picture that came to mind.

“Shyeah—I know! Purple Saran wrap on his claws and nose—actually, he may have suffocated. But, anyway—Orangie didn’t take her chalk back.”

Bob knelt down at the bucket. “This box doesn’t look like the chalk has been used. But, it says it’s multi-color. How can that be?”

“I know; it drives me to bust. But, then I thought it might be like one of those chalks with different colors in the inside layers.”

Bob craned his neck to examine the see-through lid. Normally, the colored centers showed on the ends of the chalk; in this case, it didn't.

“Have you tried them out? Pulled ‘em out?” Mar asked, crouched by the chalk with Bob, beer in each hand.

Sue’s husband Lo had come now and had just handed Mar another beer.

“Yeah. Funny thing. I can’t take the damn things out. They’re tight as J. Lo’s Ass—and that’s the capital A tight,” Lo said as he got into his new lawn chair.

What a sight it had to be to see all these thirty-some-things, kneeling on the ground in awe at sidewalk chalk. Bob indignantly got up, laughing, “Ahh, to Hell with it. Lo, hand me another beer—please.”

Bob mentally kicked himself at the disservice to his manhood he had done. But he never kept his eyes off of the chalk bucket. Not when they talked about all the construction clogging the streets. Not when Sue talked about the beeeeyoooteeful sunset she saw a few weeks ago—and how Lo fell asleep. He didn’t even raise an eye when they talked about how the orange triangular signs behind slow-moving vehicles need to be replaced with a “Just shoot yourself now” sign.

That made Bob remember when he used to scribble in English class in elementary school. He thought he was going to be an album cover artist when he grew up. His all-time favorite symbol to draw was the all-seeing eye—a large eye in a triangle with cryptic scribbles along the side. In fact, he used to draw it with chalk in front of their house. He even went around the neighborhood sometimes, offering his voodoo protection. Five dollars for the protection of the all-seeing eye on their driveways--but no re-dos if it rains. He was always convinced his good test grades were because he had time to draw the symbol outside of his house

It began to get dark when Bob looked up. Even though they were outside the whole time, they had completely missed the sunset--it never seemed to get dark, though; the moon was so bright. In fact, the only reddish hues they saw were on Mar’s arm from scratching a mosquito bite. Sue volunteered to get her bug spray as she chastised Mar for itching it until it bled.

“Really! You’re 37 years old. Control yourself. We aren’t 7 anymore,” she said as she waddled through the tough, overgrown grass.

Mar followed, snickering, saying she was going for more beer. Bob could tell she was drunk because she flipped her hair constantly—a habit she always condemned as a habit for women with no brain to jiggle around.

When the women were gone, Lo looked at Bob. He started to say something, then turned away. Bob saw his profile square, and Lo turned to Bob again.

“Y’know, they say he’s not as big as he’s supposed to be,” he said.

“Orangie?” Bob replied.

“No. Our baby.”

“Oh. How much bigger he s’posed to be?” Bob said, feeling lucky it was just the two men. Men didn’t look at one another when they talked, so he could watch the chalk all he wanted without getting in trouble.

“A lot. A lot bigger. Might not live.”

“Can you show me?” Bob asked.

Lo groaned, “All right, Dr. Asshole.” He swooped down onto the concrete floor from his chair, clapping his knees onto the surface. “I’ll give you a drawing. All technical-like.”

With a gentle pop, the orange chalk came out! Bob was amazed. He reached over Lo and snatched a piece of his own. The two plopped down--Indian-style. Bob held his piece of chalk with both hands.

Lo drew a circle as far as he could reach, holding out his tongue. He then drew another tiny circle on the inside. Then he teetered back to sit up and gestured at it, “That much.”

Bob looked at it, patting the chalk on the concrete. “That can’t be.”

“For shizzle, Doc,” Lo slurred solemnly.

“Nah—Nah. And I think I know why. That’s his penis, man,” Bob reached across to the tiny circle in the center and drew two lines from the top and bottom of the circle. He then attached a stick figure that dwarfed in comparison.

Lo snorted.

Encouraged, Bob reached across and drew a big grin on the stick figure’s face.

“That’s one lucky bastard,” Bob observed.

Lo was tight-lipped, but his eyes were bigger, happier. Bob then flopped on his stomach and began drawing hair, a nose—and even earrings--on the stick figure. Before long, Bob’s ankles were up in the air, crossing one another back and forth at a different pace, depending on if her were drawing a careful line--slow like a metronome--or coloring in--quick like a hummingbird.

Lo started to relax, and he even began to draw. He drew his wife attached to the circle, both hands at her back and a grimace on her face. Now, Bob didn’t say anything, but he thought ‘Sue’ looked more like a dirigible than an actual person.

After some time of drawing in the dark, Bob said, “You know what I used to do?” Lo hardly said anything, completely focused on his orange art.

Bob grunted. “Well, what I used to do was draw the all-seeing eye. Y’know, like in that Lara Croft movie? And it normally gave me good luck. I actually got a smiley face on one of my spelling tests the day after I drew it under my bed. I got grounded for that . . . But, anyway—I’ll draw a huge ass one for you. Then, we can have Sue lie in it—like the Indians do—except theirs is sand and not a poor kid’s sidewalk chalk set . . . And—yeah. Just for the hell of it . . . I don’t know . . . God, I must be trashed.”

The silence tormented Bob. He felt a heat rash in his cheeks. He burned with embarrassment.

But then—still not looking at Bob—Lo nodded slowly, as he drew an orange “Slow Moving Vehicle” symbol by Mar’s seat. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be cool.”

So Bob went to work. The women took so long, an entire garden had bloomed around the triangle—complete with roses and sunflowers. (“Yeah, I know they’re not orange in real life—but screw it!” Lo had joked.)

It took a long time for Lo to coax his wife into it. But once they got her down, they couldn’t get her back up. She made orange chalk dust angels and did the Worm, along with other break dance moves, laughing hysterically. For the most part, though, she didn't get up because she couldn’t get back up. Bob commented that it seemed to him the baby had grown three times bigger in the past week.

At this, Sue stopped flailing her long arms, patted her stomach, smiling in silence, and then pulled her husband down with her.

---------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: This was an assignment in my college Fiction Writing course this semester. This is my most complete story--and one of my favorites. This is the one I will submit to my college literary magazine.

Writing this story, I also learned that I write stereotypes sometimes. Though, when is a stereotype not a 'stereotype'? When it is fleshed out? Is there such a thing as a fleshed-out stereotype?

I have a feeling stereotypes are useful. While growing up, I prided myself in intentionally breaking stereotypes--namely, those of women. But I think I did a stereotypical character with Mar. Now, is it a justified stereotype?

I'll bet I broke all the A/N Rules just now . . . .