Paradigm Shift

Hopefully, one or two of you may have noticed that I have dropped off the face of the planet for more than a week.  For my excuse, I offer the fact that our lives here have been turned inside out and upside down, and it's taken a bit of time to get back on an even keel.

Those of my generation will recall the oh-so-not-politically correct punching clowns we grew up with.  For the rest of you, with a rounded, weighted bottom, these plastic inflatable clowns with squeakers in their noses rocked back when struck but would bob right back up again.  Unless, of course, it got jumped on, used as a Hoppity-Hop, and/or assaulted to uninflatable nonresponsiveness.

That's us, Dallas and me.  We haven't had the pudding knocked out of us yet.  We still bounce back, sooner or later.  Even when struck with such force we fall back clear to the floor (my brothers' favorite trick), give us some time and we're on our feet again.

But, this post isn't about Dallas and I—not really.  It's about how, over the course of a month, we came to grow from two empty-nesters rattling around an empty house, seriously considering downsizing, to a family of seven, bursting at the seams.

Friday Flash Fic: Free-for-all Challenge #1

Challenger:  Victor Neves
Challenge: cleaning cloth, stroll, parking lot

Count: 287

The Window Washer

I stepped out of the over-chilled mega-mart into an atomic blast of sweltering heat. The thermals radiated off the blacktop softening under the blazing summer sun. I hurried across the hectare parking lot as I felt the milk start to curdle. This was no time for a stroll.

Then I saw him: ragged cut-off jeans, hairy arms and chest oozing from beneath a stained muscle tank, his greasy and matted gray hair tied back with a string, and a sun-bleached headband catching the rivers of sweat which streamed from atop his bald dome.  Grime and stench—with a spray bottle in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other.

I was still five spaces down when he began smudging my windshield with his tattered rag. He worked eagerly, smiling and nodding his head as he reached across the car to the middle of the glass. “No. No thank you,” I insisted as I hurled my groceries into the truck. “I don’t have any cash. I’m sorry.” I shoved the cart into the corral, singed my hand on the door handle, and slipped in the car.

He stepped back, looking hopeful. I refused eye contact. The engine revved. I slid the gears into reverse. But, one guilt-ridden look askance told me a different tale. Beneath layer upon layer of dirt, smut collected in the crevasses etched into his scorched skin. Pale blue eyes dim and wet with age bespoke desperation, the death of hope. Truly, how great was the span between him and me? Not much, I fear. Too close.

Minus my emergency stash, one final glance in the rear-view changed my day: a broken old man sobbing with relief with a twenty-dollar bill in his hand.