Sarah Layden

In the Trunk

My old high school rent-a-cop
now directs traffic with yellow gloves,
almost two decades after
I took my last exam and cried
my way to college.

He holds up his fluorescent palm. Better
behaved, I now follow his instruction.
The lines in his face hold shadows. Hair gone silver,
glinting in the sun. But the same belly hanging
over the same brown trousers, a pregnancy
never delivered.

Back then, the boy and I thought
Officer Frank’s job cushy, cliché. Patrolling
the lot for truants. Digging at a loose molar
in squad car downtime. Gratuitous flashing
of the red-and-blue lights. The boy and I skated
past with our bold clothing and our taunts.
Or we never spoke two words, I can’t decide.

I want to say we lit cherry bombs
behind the stadium, then hid out
in the men’s room. His hands sly beneath
my Black Crowes concert tee. Me on top
of the sink, wrinkling my nose
at the briny urinals. Pay attention,
he chided. This is not a crime.

I almost remember the time
we mouthed the words to Twice
as Hard Luck, hotwiring our
advanced English teacher’s Buick
Regal and parking the blue sedan
(don’t ask how) on the football goalpost. Teetering
for a long moment, balancing perfectly.
Below, Officer Frank radioed for backup
while we held our breath in the trunk. Even
blinded by dark, the boy kept me silent
with his eyes. We never discussed keys.
Sometimes I think we’re still locked in that trunk.

No. I know. The boy’s story ended alone
in another car. The undignified stiffened
death of roadkill, of solitary squirrels
and raccoons hurling their tiny bodies
under the wheel. The thumping suicides
of the animal world.

I drive a Honda. This trunk hides hiking boots,
ungraded papers, jumper cables. A pack
of Pampers I’ve been tasked with passing
on to someone who actually has a child.
I am my own child.

I don’t live here anymore,
this part of town with its overgrown
vegetation and shaded shoulderless roads,
the blacktop undulating in my rearview mirror
like a snapped bedsheet, I don’t live
here but I never leave.

Officer Frank, I mocked you
for wanting to protect us from
ourselves. Thankless work.
Now I know without having to know:
you rinsed out your gray socks
in the sink each night. You fried
two hamburgers side-by-side
in a skillet caked with grease. You
did the best you could, living
like a bachelor with your teenage son,
the one perpetually shooting hoop
at school. A year younger than us,
with kind, too-big features. I imagine
you pointed to me and the boy
and told your son, Don’t. Not like that.

Here in the late afternoon windshield glare
you can’t see me, won’t recognize me.
There was one of you and thousands
of us. I was a mere shadow behind
the boy besides. Still. I ask a favor
you do not owe. Lift those gloved hands
and wave me through, Officer.
Direct me with yellow mitts
beyond this constant looking
backwards, as if vainly scanning
for your flashing lights.

 

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