Kids in my neighborhood had silly names. Names like Bunky, Swish, Momo, and Crayfish. They had clubhouses and hideouts, played kick-the-can and never went home in time for supper. We would sit with our heads bowed for grace and hear mothers’ voices screaming up and down the block and in the alley behind Shopwell. As soon as grace was said, my mother would frown and say, “Trash.”
Swish and Bunky and Coco-Johnny were trash. Crayfish was probably trash. He moved away when I was six and I didn’t really know him, so I couldn’t say. Creep-Eddy, Broke, and Shave were brothers and lived next door. I supposed they were trash, too, but they were nice to me and never teased me because I had only my real name. Momo was my husband.
Shave had married us. Creep-Eddy gave me away and Bunky sang the wedding march: “You Are My Destiny.” When it was over, they locked us in the garage and said we had to make a honeymoon.
The garage was crowded with bikes, lawnmowers, tools and lengths of hose. There were three small windows at the top of the roll-up door, but they were gritty and black and only a dim grey-dusty light came through. I pulled myself up to sit on the work table, and Momo paced around, poking into things, picking up reflectors and nails, leaving them beside me on the table.
He tipped his head toward the door. “Some joke,” he said about the oohing, aahing and sloppy kiss noises, but over the top, I heard Bunky’s melody.
I leaned into the dream as Bunky’s sweet soprano dripped passion: “You are my destiny. You share my reverie. You’re more than happiness. That’s what you are.”
Originally intended to be part of 30 Stories 30 Days / Tumblr.