Tuesdays

Each Tuesday afternoon unfolds in the same pattern. The wilted flowers hang their heavy heads beneath the molded wooden sign. From the effaced surface, one can still make out a “Lacey Heights Estates.” Such a bold, almost deceiving name for the handful metal sheds huddled around a circle of wind-beaten lawn chairs. Life progresses steadily here. Two hours past noon, a dark skinned woman dons her chalky blue tennis shoes and ambles routinely past Lacey Heights. Her dusty gray mutt trails after her whimpering anxiously at a stray cat. The Texas heat beats relentlessly on the rusted silver roofs and drives the residents of Lacey Heights to the central gathering spot. Blanketed in a sticky sweat, each person shifts a lethargic gaze to the passing walker as she makes her rounds about the block.
Children, shuffling off the school bus as it sighs in exhaustion, discard canvas backpacks in a cloud of excited giggles. In the absence of a proper playground, they resort to kicking about a limp ball. The lawn chair posse looks on with a collective weary grin, remembering, perhaps, their makeshift games: skipping stones and setting afloat a fleet of ships with paper sails. But the creek is long dried up, caked earth replacing the gentle ripples of childhood memories.

At four, the metal sheds once again welcome inside the residents of Lacey Heights, but precisely twenty-six minutes past the hour, an unnoticed white truck rumbles down the gravel road and creaks to an uneasy halt in the empty lot next door. The crimson letters depict the Cape Cod potato chip logo. The driver watches. His blue-grey eyes scan the surroundings: a limp ball, a disorderly arrangement of plastic lawn chairs, faded from hours unoccupied, and the quiet collection of metal roofs. He rests his callused hands in his lap, fingers bent to the shape of the wheel. Fine droplets of sweat gather at the corners of his mouth in the deep creases worn from years of laughter, but little more than a casual frown stretches his taught lips now. His crisp shirt pocket garners his name, stamped neatly on the plastic of a badge. He traces the letters with his fingers, J-I-M.

4:28 blinks from the dashboard. His eyes drift to the plastic bag resting in the seat beside him. Taking it gingerly in his cumbersome fingers, he releases the pocket of brackish air that swelled within his lungs. Two fingers retrieve a single transparent sliver. He draws his lips apart, catches the chip on his tongue and his raw cracked lips seal around it. 4:31.One hearty chuckle escapes his lips. He closes the bag with a paper clip found floating in a sea of pennies. He tosses the bag behind him as the engine sputters. His hands resume their familiar position around the handle of the great steering wheel. Reinvigorated, he pulls out of the empty gravel lot into the empty gravel road, unnoticed save a passing stray cat. By 4:36 “Cape Cod” is barely recognizable as the slight breeze sends the dust to conceal his routine tracks. Life continues to pass steadily, afternoon creeping into evening and the dark of a foggy night melting into dawn. Tuesday will pass into Wednesday and Thursday, but in every Monday hangs the promise of a Tuesday and each Tuesday afternoon unfolds the same.