An Oldie but a Goodie

This was originally written for a senior writing class about four years ago.


The Day My Mother Met Jesus

He was sitting by the side of the road on a landscaping rock in front of the A & W. He had stopped for just a moment, on a walk with his bike, to tie his shoe. Or maybe it was to pick up a quarter or a plastic bag. You never know when you might need a plastic bag. You never know when it might rain when you’re out on your bike, too far away from the awning of a friendly merchant. There are friendly merchants-- the ones who give away the leftover baked goods that haven’t spoiled yet and let you use their restrooms-- and unfriendly merchants-- the ones who yell at you for looking through their trash for aluminum and for standing under their awnings when it rains. Today, however, there was no rain. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.
On one of the hottest days, even for late August, my mother was driving home from her job at the downtown bank in her 1980 Impala. The air conditioning hadn’t worked since about 1981, so she had four windows down and was loving the feel of the breeze created by 35 miles an hour as it played through her freshly-dyed blond hair. She was feeling exceptionally youthful, so she thought she’d stop to get a can of soda to help her really embrace that feeling. She pulled into the parking lot of a barbershop where there was an outdoor Pepsi machine.
She pulled the starchy, once-folded dollar out of her wallet and fed it into the machine. After careful consideration, she selected Diet Pepsi (she was feeling young but not young enough for the “hard stuff”), and bent over to retrieve it and her change, slipping the two quarters into her purse. As she stood up, my mother glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye: a man of about her height, wearing dusty blue pants, cut off at the bottom, and a long-sleeved, button-down blue shirt with the name Ed sewn onto an oval patch above the left pocket. His hair was long, gray, and knotted, and he had the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper beard on his chin. Next to him, leaning against the rock he sat on, was a rusting red two-speed with a kickstand that hadn’t worked when he found it a year ago. My mother took in a deep breath before approaching him.
It was only a matter of eight or nine paces away, and when she got there, she held out the can with a cautious smile. At this distance she could see him much better. His blue, almost turquoise eyes glistened at the offer, as his whole face broke into a smile, showing the crow’s feet that had seen more cause for tears than for joy.
“A Diet Pepsi, ma’am,” he said, looking her in the eye as he took the can with both wind-torn hands. “Thank you.” My mother lowered her head as she turned from him and walked back to the Impala. Before she reached the driver’s side door, she heard that gasp that every can makes as it is opened. And without the can in her hand she still felt that gasp, while the man behind her raised the red, white, and blue aluminum to his lips.