Quarter Mile

Oh, right there with the roof down, that’s Mama driving into the City Park parking lot in the red convertible Sunfire. I have just completed jogging the third quarter of my mile; now with bent arms, I will fast-walk the final quarter; that’s what I called it back in 1988 when I was twelve years old. Nowadays what I was doing would be called power-walking like one of those mall people. This coincidence—Mama pulling up as I’m winding down—has me thinking, maybe too much, that she would inwardly—without mouthing a word—root for me to speed up and finish, quick, or to abandon my mile all together.  

“Hurry up, I’m low on gas; the needle’s almost gone pass e; start running again.” How would I respond to the words I predict Mama would say? 

“Mama, I’ll be done in a minute.” Would that suffice? 

“A minute my ass” she murmurs, sitting in the Sunfire at least that’s what I assume would come out of her mouth; her words are muffled by the city traffic, the radio’s commercials, and the fact that I fast-walk and she sits in the Sunfire—the distance. I’m in between; meaning, I fast-walk and I jog. The former, an attempt to retain whatever cool I have; yeah, I think what those mall people do is cool; no, I won’t attempt to show up Mama; I know my boundaries so I have to give her the idea that I’ll adjust my regimen for her; that’s why I pretend to run. That said, I don't want to start running again; I’ve always prepared myself to conclude my mile on an unhurried rhythm.  Again I think Mama’s hollering for me to finish up quick. 

Mama didn’t curse at me as a child, so why do I fear her?

Mama was a patient woman. 

Where does this trepidation of her come from? 

I don’t know. 

Perhaps it’s due to how awkward I think I was as a child, how weird I feel I appeared. Here is an image of me at twelve, that Saturday night. Picture Richard Simmons’ afro on a black kid; I’m wearing a white tank-top and red shorts; not the baggy type worn by the hip-hopping generation that hangs below the knees, rather those several inches above, just like the fitness guru. Now put the afro on Steve Urkel donning thick bifocals and that is the dork I was; or how I now—eighteen years later— perceive me at twelve. Is this why I hyperbolized Mama’s dialogue? Have I employed her as a foil, someone to pick on the twelve year-old me so that I can settle the score with him for trying to be something he wasn’t, a jock? Am I having her beat him up for acting clumsy, friendless, nerdy, disjointed, melancholic, for wearing bifocals too expensive for the family’s budget, getting bullied and having the teachers call home about him being socially awkward—and not concentrating in class?

Very well then, I’ll continue on and settle the score. 

I can’t say that the desire to run beats the urge to fast-walk. A scorekeeper might call it a tie. 

I’m now done with that indecisive final quarter and I’m striding towards the Sunfire. I’ve noticed Mama’s grim look; she’s wearing eye glasses but she squints at the dashboard then up at me; this is her way of emphasizing that the gas needle was on e; but how could I have thought that as I strode to the Sunfire? At that time I had no idea she was on e; I didn’t learn this until I was in the Sunfire.  

Somewhere in the midst of buckling the seatbelt, exchanging “How you doing? “ and “Fine,” the needle makes a fleeting look at me. I say it looks at me because the aura in the Sunfire felt as if the needle had an attitude; that the needle had eyes of its own—and it was pissed at me for fast-walking. 

It was commonplace in our household to eye the gas needle before situating oneself in the car. We often checked the needle before buckling the seatbelt. I didn’t think about not asking; it came out just after buckling the seat belt. “We need gas?”  

I figured Mama thought, “Of course we need gas; you think I don’t see the needle?”  

Had I been thinking I wouldn’t have asked about the gas; however I think it was a good thing. With the gas out in the air I didn’t have to ponder if she knew the needle was on e or not; I know; I said it was commonplace in our household to look at the needle; but she could’ve forgot to look at the needle; and if I had not asked about the gas I would’ve doubted if she knew the needle was on e or not; riding, I would’ve imagined the Sunfire going from 45 mph to 35 mph to 30 mph to 10 mph, down to 5 mph, then Mama, having to put on the caution lights, pulling over to the shoulder right there on the interstate, all the while Mama wondering what’s wrong with the Sunfire? And all this would’ve occurred if I had expected she knew that the tank was on e, if I had not have said anything. But I had said something; and Mama responded by bobbing her head—signaling she knew the needle was on e. 

Being the weirdo kid I was, I said, “I hope we don’t make it to the gas station; no, I hope we make it but…”

“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” Mama really said that.

“Well,” I said timidly, “I like that we’re almost out of gas.” 

“You like it? What you like ‘bout it?” She really said that, too.    

“It’s dramatic and kind of exciting…”

“How you figure that that there gas needle being on e is exciting?”

“ Cause it’s an emotional high, not knowing if we gone make it or not.” 

“An emotional high? Boy you done lost your mind.” 

The Sunfire began to jerk, losing power. Mama put on the caution lights and pulled over to the shoulder. 

“You stupid, nerdy boy; take this two dollars in change; walk to the store up there and get some gas.” About twenty yards down the road Mama yelled at me; still walking I turned my head around to see what she wanted. She shrieked, “run, you dumb fool” into the starlit night.

I raced to the service station, rummaged through the garbage, found a gallon milk carton, pumped, and paid for the gas. When I returned Mama and the Sunfire were gone; the Sunfire wasn’t out of gas; she’d left the lights on while I’d dueled over to fast-walk and jog that final quarter of my mile, thus the battery had died; it was my fault, she later declared. A passerby stopped and gave her a jump. Mama drove home without me.       

I don’t blame Mama; she didn’t have a choice; someone had to set me straight.