The Blue Pick-up Truck
Some mornings mom would drive me to school, all the way over the Williamsburg bridge to 16th and third, and we would get stuck in traffic. I would be late, and we would have plenty of time to talk. We would climb into the truck, baby blue with primer and holes rusted through the walls of the flatbed, put Pink Moon into the stereo, and rumble through the backroads behind bedford ave. That was before Williamsburg was Billburg and the highrises and the yuppies pushing babies with prada diaper bags. One morning the doors wouldnt open, so we had to climb in through the little window in the back. She would make me tea and put in in a cup that said "uncommon grounds." Sometimes we would stop at the polish bakery and get a doughnut and a carton of milk. I would wander into silent meeting 10 minutes late, would have to walk past the laughing eyes of the upperclassmen as i plopped into my seat in the freshmen benches. I had to sit through many "chronic lateness" lectures in which the threatened to call my parents and inform them of my problem.
I didnt tell them that i loved the mornings i was late. Or that my mom did too.
I didnt tell them that i loved the mornings i was late. Or that my mom did too.