#trying to carve out possibilities that make life a little less bleaker for the tiny boy in that car. whether that boy will one day share

[ravencromwell]

"Minnie Mouse Toy" by Willie Edward Taylor Carver Jr.

“Would you like a Hot Wheel or a Barbie, sir?” The words float like ghosts in front of me when I speak them, frozen by the winter air whipping in through the drive-thru window. “Boys’ toy!” Gruff. No a. Just boys’ and toy. Two words. “Okay. We have Hot Wheels and Barbies.” “No wonder you work at McDonald’s, you idiot.” Idiot. I am five again. My mother’s knee-length, interstate-cold denim coat is a traveling house. When I stand close enough, I smell floor cleaner, cigarette smoke, minty gum. Home. The bright lights of McDonald’s are a circus of plastic, shining glee; my tiny heart twists with such rapture that I feel dizzy and hug the clouds of home that are her coat. My mom clears her throat. “Could I get a Happy Meal with the Minnie Mouse car?” The words are soft like the quilted lining of her coat, and each petal of a word builds a flower of please. The cashier hammers a few buttons and yips our order into a thin microphone, but then her eyes grab me and drag me from the coat. They look me up and down and tug at my shirt. I pull the coat closer until I am surrounded by the smoke and gum and cleaner and can feel the blankets on my bed piled around me. But I hear her through the imaginary walls as she hands the boxed meal to my mother: “You know you’re gonna ruin him?” The words lodge themselves into the foundation of the imaginary home. It dissolves, and suddenly I am just a boy near a coat in a bright place with nowhere to hide. “Thank you.” The flowers are dead. They fall fast to the ground. My mother carries the cartoon-colored box to the booth, drops a pack of menthols on the gleaming tabletop, and gently directs the toy car to the side of the cigarette box as she lights up a cigarette, exhales a whispering cobalt storm cloud of mint and worry, and then fights gravity to pull the edges of her lips into a smile. “Go ahead and play, bubby. We can eat after mommy smokes.” She tries to ash her cigarette. I try to play. The toy car is as heavy as her smile, and like the smoke, I know the weight of it is my fault, and unlike the smoke, I can’t make her feel better. The plastic is too thick and the paint on Minnie’s pink hairbow looks like my little baby cousin’s cheeks that change from white to red while she screams, crying, and her mom begs her to stop. I look to my mother’s face. *** I pull myself up from the memory. I am sixteen. I am in a drive-thru, and the word idiot is snowing on me. “Sir, we have two toys: Barbie and Hot Wheels.” He drives away. I keep standing.