The co-ed is sitting on the edge of the fountain, legs
crossed, her elbows on her knees. She is
staring down the koi fish. She knows that if she doesn’t turn in her paper on women
in the Beat generation, she won’t get an A in the class—but she’s questioning
her major. Female retrovirus researchers are sexy, right?
An auto mechanic watches the successful local artist dig
around the pockets of his careless cargo pants, looking for a dime. He wonders
what it’s like to have a passion for something in life. A kid at seventeen and
forty years of grease under the fingernails is all he has to show the world. At
least his son is a doctor who drives a classic car that runs well.
The backslidden Christian soccer mom runs into her son’s
coach. She wishes she hadn’t gotten married so young, hadn’t chosen the
ambitious pastor hopeful who gave her three children and then put it on the
backburner in the name of the Lord. She can’t remember the last time she saw
her husband wear athletic shorts and a t-shirt that showed off his pecs and
biceps.
A high school student sits with his heels on the edge of the
chair and taps his notebook with the tip of a pen. He can take the sponsorship
this summer and make a name for himself now, or he can take the academic
scholarship and compete after he graduates. If only his dad hadn’t died right
after he promised to go to college. Now the choice doesn’t really feel like a
choice.
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