The little hand again and always grabs the larger calloused one. Today, a visit to "the ponies" and then chicken fingers at The Captains Table.
Buckled in the back seat of the dirty black '91 toyota, I kick my feet confined by the clear jellies and frilly white socks that hold them hostage.
Drawing smiley faces and hearts on the foggy windowed canvas helps pass time, as well as mining for crumbs of only he knows what in the nooks and crannies of these crusty velvet seats.
The man up front lights another home grown cigarette and turns up the sporadic jazz music that has been pouring out of the speakers and dripping into my ears ever since we left the driveway.
Minutes pass and we pull into a green glowing lot, lit by the neon O-T-B adorning the white building, just as a star would resting atop your christmas tree. The little hand waits for the larger, loving, calloused one to let her out.
There, towering ahead, she looms. Watching me, laughing at me, as I step once again through the engulfing silver plated doors, onto her maroon carpeted tongue, and shuffle my way over to the tall bony bar. The hands grab me under my armpits, to seat me next to miniature pencils, colorful score cards and toy t.v.'s. He exits stage right. Upon his return, I am handed a pencil and a list of pseudonyms, being told to pick my favorite.
I am a rabbits foot.
I am an old rusted horse shoe.
I am a four leafed clover.
After a race is over, I am restricted once again to the back seat of the Toyota. Allowing my delusions of grandeur to take me over, I am unaware of how I am the only occupant here breathing the old cold air. With the thud of a handle, in scoots the man, shoving a less-than-full money clip back into his pockets. Grumbling, the ignition turns over a tired motor.
Pulling into another artificially lit area of tar, the tungsten light bounces off of numerous machines gas cans and chrome wheels that are carefully parked out front. As I am paraded past the beasts, I feel the urge to stick my little hand out and re-enact the domino scenario I had built earlier in the day. As if sensing my curiosity, the mans hand squeezes mine tighter and rushes me inside.
Being pulled into a dimly lit room, all that is noticed is whatever the light can catch. Bronze embellishments on one bikers key ring, the golden sap of beer in a mug, and the dirty ripped red stools. Once again, I am plopped at the bench of a bar. A drink is pushed in front of me, as if I had aged 19 years from the faux race track to this table. Five cherries swim stuffily around the bottom of the cup, in a sea of sprite. With a pat on the head, I am left with the bar tender to eat french fries and color with the two and a half dirty same colored crayons fished out from behind ice buckets and warm booze. Boredom consumes me.
Hastily he comes from the back of the room. Always and again the calloused hand grips mine. Whisked off the barstool, out through the door, and back across the landscape of bikes we weave. Shoved in the car, and only asked if I had buckled myself in a mile down the road, his tension eases, and a powdered white baggy is deposited into the cars center console. The radio static creeps around us again, and we coast home.
I was my fathers life insurance
I was my fathers lucky charm
I was a 3 year old girl on one of many past and future field trips.
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