Today I get a much needed kicking.
Yesterday, I drove past the Qualls kids’ little cardboard “Kicks = Won Dollar” booth and thought, “Tempting, but you’ve done nothing to earn it, bub.” Besides, I’ve got a three-year-old at home and can get my kicks for free. I took said squirt to the zoo Saturday when I didn’t even have to, so, technically, I’m golden; I owe nothing to no one. Even went to my sixth-grade math teacher’s funeral last month. I’d completely forgotten she existed. Saw old classmates pretending to be upset on Facebook. I’m getting cocky. Showing off.
I torpedo into work today, hellbound to earn my kick. After lunch–Burger King–I lock my office door and take a nap, blowing off three student’s appointments, something I’ll inevitably be reported for. I mentally high-five myself. That’s more like it.
Since Cason was born, I’ve played it way too carefully and broke a promise to myself to stay punk rock. If twenty-five-year-old me saw me now, he’d boot himself in the nuts, no question.
I stop in the street in front of the Qualls kid’s house and leave my Camry sitting in the street, a line of cars honking behind. The kids rush out from behind the booth and eagerly greet me. Two girls, maybe twelve, in unseasonably long dresses; they give off a home-school vibe.
“Do you want a kick?” in adorable unison.
“You know it,” I say.
The taller one winds up but the shorter one waves her off, scowls. “Hold up. You a creep?”
“What if I am,” I say and wink.
The short girl returns to the booth and shows off the butt of a shotgun. It’s leaning back there, barrel down on the sidewalk.
“Good,” I say, “smart.” I look back to the tall girl and twirl my finger. “Alright. Do it.”
Tall Girl looks to Short Girl. Short Girl nods okay. Tall Girl kicks the shit out of me. Truly wangs my shin. Eight out of ten. This kid will go pro. I see flashes of pink, the color of pain. Just what I needed. “Woo,” I say and toss four quarters on the grass, amidst a pile of chalky, aged dog turds. I limp to my car, do a dragging moonwalk through a barrage of honks and curses, blow kisses at the furiously waiting drivers, climb in, switch on the Descendents’s “Suburban Home,” and shout along, drumming way offbeat on my steering wheel, cruise home bruised and feelin’ peachy.
About:
Travis Flatt (he/him) is an actor and bookseller living in TN. His stories appear in Jake, HAD, Rejection Letters, and other places. He enjoys theater, fluffy dogs, and theatrically fluffy dogs.
Original Photography by Washarapol D BinYo Jundang via Pexels.com
