Reasons to be a Rock

Rocks are fairly easy to understand. Peacefulness comes from singularity and from solid form. Even on a mountain, rolling down in an avalanche, a rock only chips and cracks, breaking into more rocks. The world rotates around a rock, fiery and bright. That is why I want to be a rock.

When Maria came into the store, the dusty pillowing beneath her shuffling feet, I imagined the small rock particles resting again on the cement floor.

“They said the companies can start drilling by the 17^th,” she scoffed. Brushing back her freshly dyed blonde hair, she sat on the counter in front of me.

“What about the lake crowd? They’re just going to let it happen?”

“They hired a lawyer.”

Glancing out the glass storefront, the street crowds moved in averagely sparse patterns. Jimmy, the retired farmer sat on an upside down milk crate in front of the bank. His faded red baseball cap brim hung down over sleeping eyes.

“What are they going to do with a lawyer?”

“I really don’t know, Anne. Maybe they want to hold it up until winter. Lord knows they won’t be drilling for gas in the snow.”

“I can’t understand any of this crap.” I walked to the door, keeping my eye on Jimmy as he slowly leaned leftwards on the blue crate. Taking the ‘open’ sign, I quickly turned it to ‘closed’.

“It’s only 4:30.”

“Marie, when has the time had anything to do with when I close?”
“The Larchens are going to fire you.”

Ignoring her, I untied my apron and left it next to the gum rack. Falling down off the counter, I watched her shorts ride up, exposing her thin, tan thighs. I could never help but look at her clean beauty with admiration and regret.

“Can we have pasta and alfredo tonight?”

“Sure, Maria.”

We walked out of Larchen’s market into the buzzing Pennsylvania, August air. Jimmy sat half dead on his stoop. The legends of why he waited outside the bank abounded, and Jimmy never told any of them down. Briana from up North Street said his wife had left him outside the bank before a robbery, and she was killed. He sits and waits for her to come out. Steven Foster said he deposited his money in a savings account when he was young, and he’s just waiting to collect the interest.

Maria kept combing through her hair, the strands pulling farther apart and wavy in the muggy air. I followed, looking down at the heart shaped crown of darker colored roots.

“Your roots in the back, Maria—you really missed.”

“Shit, Anne. I can’t see up there like you can. Will you help me fix it?”

“I’ll try, but I’ve never been one for coloring.”

We followed the sidewalk up Main Street towards a row of blue and brown two story houses. We turned into number 16, our slightly yellowed black-shuttered home.

“Mom’s car is gone,” I muttered, walking up the stone steps.

“What did you expect?”

Pushing the door open, I hopped inside dropping my keys on the computer desk. Maria quickly slid her flip-flops off, kicking them into a corner. She fell into the couch face first.

Walking straight through the narrow hallway, I felt the cool kitchen tiles sticking to my feet. An old egg smell permeated the air. Throwing my nose into the neck of my t-shirt, I scanned the room. A half-gallon milk carton rested sideways on the wooden table. A trail of white led out the back screen door and onto the porch. Nothing could stay still in our crooked house.

“Maria, did you drink milk this morning?”

“I hate breakfast.”

“I bet,” I muttered, lifting the carton carefully between my thumb and index fingers. The carton never had pictures of missing children, like they’d said in all the movies. It always made me wonder if children really went missing enough, or if people just cared less about lost kids. I threw the carton away, and began throwing paper towels at the mess on the floor.

“Can we eat immediately? I’m starving.” Maria walked into the kitchen, her eyes blinking and closing. “What is that smell.”

“The milk someone left all over the kitchen.”

“Probably the cat or something.”

“I bet he opened the fridge and took out the milk. Those cats and opening fridges.”

“You know what I mean, Anne.”

“Just clean up after yourself next time.”

Walking to the cabinets, she flung open the light wooden doors. She took out two boxes of fettuccini and a jar of alfredo.

“Two boxes, Mar? There are only two of us.”

“Right. Remember, I said starving.”

She left her findings on the counter and walked to sit at the table. I started boiling some water and cooking the noodles, watching them rumble and flop around. Humming something softly to herself, Maria closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

“Toute la comédie des amours. Sur cet air qui va toujours,” she began singing in a lingering alto.

“Is that French?” I laughed, stirring the noodles slowly.

“What? The song?”

“What else?”

“Sorry, Anne. I spaced out a bit.”

“Is it French?”

“Yeah, Piaf.”

“Where’d you learn French?”

Maria smiled, standing from her chair and sliding her small feet across the floor towards me. The muscles in her calves contracted and tightened fluidly.

“I don’t need to know French, Anne. I like the sound of it. The meaning comes through the sound more than the language.”

I smirked, stirring the noodle water into a light boil. Grabbing through jars and cans, Maria pulled out three bottles of alfredo sauce. I gave her a sidelong glance, but she smiled, clunking the jars sloppily on the counter.

“Remember, sweet Anne, I am starving.”

“What are you going to do when you have to make your own food and clean up after yourself?”

“Hopefully find someone else to take care of me or die trying,” Maria laughed, jumping onto the counter. Part of me laughed at the truth and probability, while a jealous spite lingered. It was odd to see myself reflected in another person, knowing that I would fight battles she would never know.

Outside a car rumbled into the gravel driveway.

“Is that mom?” Maria ran through the house to the living room window. ‘What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Is it a holiday?”

“Stop worrying.”

Thumping her way into the kitchen, Maria had a struck smile across her face.

“Mom is here early. It’s a good thing I took out all that pasta, huh?”

“Yeah, great.” I laughed, stirring the noodles. They wouldn’t soften quickly enough, so I decided to just dump them into the colander and hope for the best. The front door clapped open and the sounds of outside burst in with tires hitting asphalt and fluttering birds.

“Girls?” We listened to the heals click there way across the wooden floor until mom stood at the entrance to the kitchen. “What is that smell?”

“I don’t know. It just smelled like it when we got home.”

“It isn’t a gas leak, is it?”

“No,” Maria muttered, opening the fridge. “Hey, we’re out of milk, mom.” She turned on the point of her heals, eyes bearing over Maria.

“I bought milk yesterday. It should be in there.”

“Nothing. Strange…”

“I can’t get it now, there’s an accident down Main.”

Maria and I passed a moment of knowing eye contact, proud of our cover-up, though I was mostly relieved to keep mom from yelling. She’d been oddly passive.

“You know the guy who sits on that box?”

“Jimmy, yeah,” Anne said. Taking out the orange juice and cranberry juice, she mixed them in equal parts into a glass. “What about him?”

“Well, some kid was speeding, and poor old Jimmy must have been crossing the street for something. Smacked right into him, sending the ld man flying under the tires. They rushed him off, and they closed the bank for the rest of the day. The kid was hysteric, yelling about how Jimmy jumped in front of him.”

A silence fell between the three of us as Anne sipped on murky brown juice and mom began picking at the noodles. I grabbed three Corel bowls and started serving myself.

“Strange,” Maria said. “I just saw him, what Anne? An hour ago?”

“Less.” I maintained action. Jimmy had been kind, in that he’d never really done anything. In fact, I’d never seen him get off the milk crate until about five, if I worked all of my hours. He didn’t even get up to relieve himself. Why would he be in the road?

“Anne, hey? Give me the spoon,” Maria squeaked, taking the handle from my clenched hand.

“Sorry, just out of it.” I let loose and walked to the kitchen table. The rotting egg smell got stronger the closer I came to the previous spill sight.

Jimmy had been a rock. Jimmy never moved.

“How about the lake lurkers?” Mom laughed, dropping noodles from her mouth.

“Can you believe it, a lawyer? What will they do to big gas companies with a lawyer from here?”

“Waste everyone’s time?” Mom continued eating as Maria scoffed softly to herself. Maria was for the natural gas drilling. For her it meant mom would have to work less after we leased out our two acres of land and started receiving royalties. I wasn’t a fan of a large drill, but I couldn’t see the harm in drilling for a natural resource as long as the company paid damages. I imagined our well with bubbling water, but then I could only picture the sediment at the bottom. The rocks so still and silent spoke to me. And I couldn’t stop thinking of Jimmy passed out on his crate.

“They’re afraid of change,” I said. It had always been right. The fear dealt with the possibility of loss.

“That’s stupid. Who fears change?” Maria continued eating her noodles, sitting her tan thighs on the counter.

I imagined Jimmy as a rock—a statue of David outside of Larchen’s Market. He sits there until one day he doesn’t want to be a rock. Instead, Jimmy decides to be pebbles, because until then, Jimmy had been afraid of change. He runs into the street and gets pulverized, but Jimmy is still rock. He is still just a bunch of little rocks.