Sabrina and David's Tale -- The Fourth of July

It’s fourth of July. It’s also 48 degrees and the sun is shinning. The weather has been like this all summer. Freakish. What ever happened to global warming anyway? All that talk and all those warnings, humph.
Sabrina and I have been bundled up and wandering around Billfordstown’s 87th annual Downtown Independence Day Celebration all day. I am full of fritters. Sabrina has abstained from the fried foods and has been sampling various shades of taffy and fudge from every blue haired crooked smile that waved a shaky arthritic hand in her direction. Sabrina’s always been like that. She has an ear the size of a Ford Explorer when it comes to listening to a crone’s tale of past loves, unappreciative grandchildren, various fat-free lunch recipes, or Oprah’s weight loss. I don’t have the patience. I don’t like people much. I especially don’t like people who prattle. I figure I have limited space inside my head to store information, why would I want to take up any of it with odes to Brad Pitt’s divorce or paeans to cousin David’s daughter’s boyfriend’s fraternity brother’s meeting with Bill Gates and what a generous man he is, really. Why? What? Shut-up.
Sabrina, on the other hand, laps it all up. She’s fascinated, honestly, genuinely fascinated. She likes puppies too. What she’s doing with me I still can’t figure out. Maybe it’s out of pity. I try not to think too much about it. It’s my opinion that the unexamined life carries much less baggage on road trips and I like to travel. I also like Sabrina and she seems to like me. We have a good time together. Why worry? Life is experience, it ain’t anything anyone’s ever going to get their head around. Live. Enjoy. Be as happy as possible. Why not?
I’ll admit that it gets harder and harder to do. Everyone wants to talk so much. They all seem to need to show how much they know and tell you what kind of person they are. Even the guys down at the hardware store. A couple of days ago I was in there to buy a fistful of 16 penny nails, and I overheard Lance saying to Will, “You know, I think Lisa is pushing me away because I am not helping her define her femininity and I am not empowering her with ownership of her sexuality.” This must be a fancy way of saying, “I ought to bathe a bit more often and stop hanging out with the strippers at the Bunkhouse on Route 7,” because that’s what the problem is. Let’s be honest.
All this kind of talk, this endless babble, it serves no purpose. It solves no problems. It keeps people at arms length from experience. It’s hooey. Too much talk.
Sabrina tries it with me every once in awhile. She can’t help herself sometimes. It’s her nature, I suppose. She asks, “What are you thinking?” and I always tell her the truth when she asks. But my answers of “how do my tiny feet hold up my huge body?” or “If you drove along the equator at the same speed as the earth was spinning, except in the opposite direction, would you actually stay in one place for the rest of your life?” are not quite the responses she is looking for. It’s OK though. She lets go quickly. She smiles alot when she looks at me. I try to kiss her every time she smiles. We get along fine.
The Billfordstown Volunteer Fireman’s Orchestra has started to play the Star Spangled Banner. Sabrina grabs my hand and pulls me down onto one of the new pale green park benches the town just put in place so our senior citizens would have more places downtown to sit and complain. Darryl thought the pale green would make the benches stand out better so the seniors could find them easier. They stand out alright. Stand out like cat vomit. But they serve their purpose. Mr. Scofield and Mr. Maynid now have a prime location in which to bemoan teenage fashion and our President’s peccadilloes. They all need a stage. Too much talk.
Sabrina is wearing the white chenille sweater I got her for Christmas last year. It’s a turtleneck. It frames her face nicely. Her thick red hair glows deeply in the light of the sunset.
Old man Cooney starts to sing along with the band. He’s off key. He gets most of the words wrong and he can’t even seem to follow the beat. But he’s misty, his eyes are all misty. Crazy old man Cooney is an American true-blue. He may have stacks of newspapers filling up seven of the eight rooms in his house, there may be potato salad from 1957 in his garage, but that’s potato salad and newspapers made by Americans, for Americans, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t forget it. Just ask him, and old man Cooney will tell you. He’s seen it all and there ain’t no goddamn better place in the world then America, Darn Tootin’!
The Burton Twins are pointing and laughing. Old man Cooney spits when he sings.
Sabrina snuggles a little closer, my arm is around her. I can smell the shampoo in her hair. The air is crisp and clear, almost like a fall day. The sunset is turning a rich display of oranges and reds. The band has begun a medley of Motown hits. I am breathing easy and deep.
Sabrina exhales deeply. She turns her head to look up at me. “I love you David,” she says, her eyes locked on mine with intensity.
I smile and I clear my throat. I try to speak, but I am still choked up. I clear my throat again but remain unable to say anything. Finally, I cough. It is a loud, barking cough that takes me by surprise. I look down at Sabrina. The beautiful white chenille sweater is covered with all these tiny red dots. They weren’t there before. I think they are blood.
I cough again, loudly. It hurts. There are more dots of blood.
“Ummmmm...” I say, trying to figure out what is happening.
“I said I love you, David.” Sabrina pleads, wanting to make sure I understand. This time when I cough, a big wad of blood hits her right in the face.