Springbrook Summer

A summer trip to the old neighborhood reveals insight to how people we know have changed.

Springbrook Summer

There are plenty of things that protect you in the summer time; sun block, hats, sunglasses, things of that nature. I prefer something to protect me from the depressing nostagia of visiting a place I used to know.

For me, this place is Springbrook Lane. Springbrook was a place that never really got old, I just never really got used to seeing it. It always reminds me of that thing that happens when you listen to a song you've heard a hundred times before, but then you really LISTEN to it, and you find out something that you never noticed before. Even something small is still new, and new is refreshing. That's Springbrook for you; a depressing refreshment. A kind of reality check. Me and my brother, Michael, walked down the cracked road that was Springbrook; recalling the failed endevours of our childhood.

 

 Springbrook Lane was in Prince Georges County, in Maryland; a less than leisure place for two young white boys to grow up. Needless to say, we both found our way out of the town; in very different directions. We were in town again, visiting our Mom for the Summer break. She too had tried to get out of town on many occasions, but it seemed that good ole Prince George had too good a grip on her. She was in the same place she was in many years before; stuck in her parents' basement. Granted, it made visiting our grandparents a hell of a lot easier, they were only a flight of stairs away; but it was depressing to see a thirty-seven year old mother of a bazillion kids sitting in a basement, unmoved, but not untouched by time. It was evident that time had withered her away; well, that, and a lot of drug and alcohol addiction along the way. Coupled with having more kids than i can count; I dont have much of a frame of reference, but I'm pretty sure it's not good if you don't know half of your siblings. It was good to see her clean and sober though, it made me happy to know that someone can get back on the wagon and actually stay on it.

 

But I'm getting off topic, back to Mike and I on the street. It's years after we got out, I'm seventeen, Mike's nineteen, I'm about to be a senior, Mike's a janitor at a school, I'm pale from lack of sunlight due to my video game addiction, Mike smells to high heaven with the stench of bongwater. I looked at him as we walked, comparing and contrasting how we are and how we used to be. When we got out of PG County, we split up; different directions, different lifestyles, different friends, we became different people. We walked some more, I looked down and saw Mike clenching his pipe, the tiny piece of glass debauchery that he smoked out of. It had a fancy brand name, with a fancy explanation on how to use it, but that wasn't really my cup of tea. It did crack me up though, the pride he had in that little chunk of glass. I'd never tell him I thought it was stupid though, that was grounds for an argument, I just let him spark it up, breathe deep, and kill what brain cells he had left. That was one of the bigger divergences in our paths of life, I was never a drug user; Mike, on the other hand, devoted half his paycheck to the stuff. It pained me to see how much money he flushed down the toilet buying his "Mackdaddy Kush" or his "Alaskan Thundercrunch" or whatever names kids conjure up. But once again, I would never say anything on the issue, lest an argument be started about my life choices. I chose to live by a piece of advice my uncle gave me, "The biggest revenge in life, is success" the truest words ever spoken.

 

 But back to Mike and his expertly engineered pipe. "Glad to finally get outta the house," he spoke, "tired of sitting around doing freaking nothing with Mom all day." I felt an obligation to defend whatever was left of my Moms' dignity, "Yea, 'cause walking down the street and smoking a bowl on a hot a*s day is just so much more fun." Mike just looked at me with disgusted eyes, like I said I wanted to crap in his pillow or something. That's how he was, easily offended and easy to offend others; a prime example of someone who can dish it out, but not take it in any way. I always thought that his easily offended nature was the reason he hated our mother; he feels that she offended him, let him down. I still to this day, think I am the only one out of all my brothers that actually loves our mother. Everyone else just...tolerates her. Which is understandable, she made her share of mistakes. But then, so has everyone else in my family, and nobody likes to talk about the neat stacks of skeletons in their perspective closets, not even me. But alas, this isn't about me, it's about the change in the people I know, and used to know.That was the initial purpose of our walk to Springbrook; to see if an old friendly family from way back when still lived there,the Wolfson family. They were the only other white family in PG County; which practically made us family. Their house consisted of two brothers, a sister, a Father, and a Mother. Ryan and Jason were the two brothers, Summer was the sister, Ronnie was the father, and the mothers' name escapes me. Michael and I were on our way to see if they still lived there; considering that that place was pretty much a second home for us. I was eager and anxious and scared all at the same time, I was afraid that maybe they had all become like Mike, or worse. Maybe they didn't live there at all, maybe they moved on to greener pastures, wishful thinking. Mike and I would find out soon enough.

 Our walk was relvatively silent the rest of the way; I guessed he was still bitter about my comment on his weed smoking. I didn't care much, he knew my standpoint on the issue. We walked along the side of the road, elevated slightly as we went uphill.The Wolfson house was at the crest of this little hill. We finally got to the top, only to look in their driveway and say "Huh" in complete unison, while staring at the Cadillac that was parked in the driveway of the rundown house. The yard was a small jungle, and I had left my machete in my other pair of shorts. The Cadillac told us everything we needed to know; or at least we thought it did. The Wolfsons' were rednecks, it wouldn't make any sense for them to have a Cadillac. Mike looked at me, "You wanna go knock on the door?" he asked, hoping I'd say yes. "Nah, they're gone dude." I began walking away from the house, walking away from a big ole slice of my childhood, strutting by in my vans; leaving my unanswered questions in the driveway with that shiny Cadillac. Mike turned to walk with me, with less reluctance. He hated this place more than he missed it. But not me; I treasure it for all the memories, the good and the bad. As we began treading back downhill, a car with blacked out windows went by, and pulled into the driveway with the Cadillac. Both Mike and myself were too weirded out by the blackout windows to take a second look, if you saw a car and you couldn't see the drivers face; it usually meant shady business. We kept walking, our eyes forward, until we heard a familiar voice call our names. We both instantly knew it was Ronnie, and turned around. Seeing him was a hoot; he hadn't aged a day, physically or mentally, he was still a little fowl mouthed redneck man, which was his trademark. It's why Mike and I liked him in the first place.

We strolled up and shook his hand for old times sake, and made our way up to the house. The smell was the same; oil and smoke; a smell that stained the driveway. If you dug up the driveway and put a new one in, it'd still retain that nostril clearing stench. "How's everything going these days?" I asked as we made our way to the front door. "Jason got married 'N moved to Florida, Summer went with her Mom to South Carolina, 'N Ryan is still here with me." Ronnie felt around for his keys in his pocket; pulling out a BIC lighter and his pipe, his looked slightly different from Mikes' though. I was getting a sense of how things were nowadays. It would have been faster to just kick the door in. But he got the door open nonetheless, and the smell, if it can even be called that, finalized my opinion about how things had gotten. It smelled like moldy wood and dirty dishes; I had to breathe through my mouth to avoid it. It was nauseating. We all took a step inside, all the lights were off; maybe it was like that so no one could see how filthy the place was, or maybe they were just too lazy to turn them on, either way it was dark as hell in there. We took a turn out of the main hallway, and into the living room; the ancient wood flooring was buckling under my weight. As we walked into the living room, I got my first glimpse of Ryan; the dull light emmited from the TV he was watching illuminated his sullen, broken features. He looked like a husk of his former self; he was draped in dirty sweatpants, his hair was matted down and clinging to his acne riddled cheeks. The picture of Bob Marley on the wall, and the collection of pipes on the table told me everything I needed to know about his hobbies. He looked up as we came in, "Hey." was the only greeting he gave us, and he did it from the comfort of his grimey couch. He acted like he saw us yesterday, like it was no big deal; we hadn't seen each other in six years. Mike and I sat down on the nasty couch, and began talking about nothing. I quickly left the conversation and began watching whatever was on the TV at the time. Ryan and Mike began conversing about the different drugs they liked to take, how much they would "trip major balls" on them, not a conversation for me. The moment kept lingering on, I wanted to politely disappear, go home and do nothing with Mom again. But that wasn't happening, and then Mike and Ryan began talking about politics, what I call "Posterior Linguistics", a fancy way of saying that someone is talking out of their a*s. All I hear from them is comments about how poorly the president is doing in office, not backing up their claims with any viable evidence; or blaming the immigrants. Whatever they could think of to keep the ignorant politcal debate going. I imagined that if Anderson Cooper was retarded, it would sound like this. The ignorance of it all was painful to hear. I let them carry on for ten minutes or so, but finally I spoke up, "Mike, Mom wants us back home for dinner at like seven." I was lying, but it was the only way to get out in a timely fashion. Ryan didn't seemed phased at all, I could have taken his bong, smashed it over his head, slit his throat with one of the pieces, and he probably wouldn't mind. He was a carcass these days, hopefully someone or something could revive his dead life. Ryan looked at us, "See you guys around" was all he could muster, his monotone voice like that of a bad actor reading from a script.  Mike and I both said "See ya later, man", and left. We walked home in silence, we both left feeling a little sad about the way things had become. Mike seemed changed after that, maybe he saw what direction he was headed in and didn't like where it led. I did a lot of things that summer; with my Mom, with my Dad, with my uncle, with my cousins, but this was the one thing that really stuck with me, maybe because it was the saddest, or the most revealing. I'm not really sure why that little snippet of my life is so important to me, all I know is that it is, and there's a reason for it.

Reviews

[Just another person on ..]

I really like the idea behind this story. I think the heavy use of grammatical rules, and the breaking of many traditional ones, was one the detracting qualities. The amount of information put into such a small space might have been the reasoning behind that. I commend you on that achievement. I think short stories can be one of the most difficult creations to achieve successfully and you seem to have almost reached that goal. Would I be right to assume this is a work in progress as it ends mid-sentence with the promise of more? I would be curious to see this as a final polished piece.

[Slevin Kelevra]

Yes it isn't finished just yet. I'll have it done soon I promise!

[Dead Trees]

This honestly got me thinking of not only how these characters lives have changed throughout, but what else happened that changed to them that they have not said yet. Stories like this always get me thinking, and I think it's great that they do. They always give a sense of individuality in someones life rather than focus on something else entirely.