Pajamas
Trish Hopkins
for Ivory Upthegrove
Saturday evenings belonged to the drive-in. Mom layered the backseat of the derelict Rambler with pink fleece blankets, pillows, and grandma's buttered rum bonbons—a shrine to the tooth fairy. Streetlights passed like a countdown on the timeworn avenue until we found our groove in the tenth parking mound from the front at the Sunrise Drive-in.
In our pajamas, Sally and I frolicked to the playground, singing like Wizard of Oz munchkins. Other children huddled in ragged packs playing Barbie and G.I. Joe in the fading light while we took turns pushing each other on the cracked rubber swing. Hands held high, we tried to touch the creamy lavender spread thick as peanut butter across the sky. We knew to go back to the warmth of our car when the hotdog danced with the soda cup.
A John Travolta double feature; the first, someone else’s imagination of 1950s teenagers dancing dirty at a school carnival, all in Technicolor. As planned, at intermission, Mom tucked us into our makeshift beds before the R-rated movie came on.
The heat of the summer clung to the back of my knees as Sally slept, and I stared out the filmy window at the carnival-lit store, envisioning the two-story Barbie dream house our leaf-raking money could buy. Mom’s Hershey bar beckoned me. Peering over the backseat, I glimpsed our hero’s naked butt flaunted across the screen. My eyes burned, and I burrowed into my blanket—Sally’s bare toes tranquil on my pillow, streamed up car windows around us, shadows of bare feet in the air.
Copyright © 2005 American River Review
