Twelve full grown red oaks form an almost perfect square in the center of a being constructed condo development. They form Boston’s Stonehenge. The clever CEO is surely responsible for the moniker on the neon sign, for the t.v. ads, Redstone Manors, and got a hefty bonus for it. Nobody cares that I don’t think it is an inviting name. It’s alright, but not good.
Much of the construction is nearing completion which has sped up the needed decoration. Stone benches skirt the inside of the square. The magnificent trees, each close to 110 feet tall, shade them. A large marble, or maybe fake marble, fountain is in the middle. Yellow, orange red, lights illuminate the base even though the water isn’t flowing out of Diana’ s breasts yet.
The puzzle of the trees being aligned, growing to the almost identical height fascinates historians. Red oaks grow all over New England. Tourists come in fall and gape at their wondrous colors, see the squirrels gather winter’s nuts. There is a group making a big stink in the area of Redstone Manors. These unfortunate people who have nothing better to do are trying to get a license to dig tunnels under the twelve red oaks to look for Indian relics, dried up bones. I’ve already sent my letter to the Editor of Boston’s Mainstreet, to deny such nonsense.
Let’s get down to me, for a moment. I’m a young widow, only 24, who has become despondent over my husband’s death and crawled into a shell of nastiness. Two good friends stick by me, but the others are friend-come-lately. I’m against our big government, same sex marriage, dumb, really dumb t.v. shows that get many advertisers and thousands of viewers. I’m not going to name them, there would be no room for me to continue writing. Everything irks me except the lovely red oaks. Their big leaves let in just the right amount of sunshine so I don’t get old lady’s skin too soon. The gentle breezes kiss my cheeks and I think of Paul. Their staggering height makes me see giants as wild winds mess up my hair and take me inside of fairyland. The construction guards have gotten to know me, smile, don’t bother me at all. A tall one with rough hands and a hairless head made a pass at me which my ‘No thank you,’ handled with ease.
Fall is falling. The red and orange leaves blow across the field, into the still unfilled fountain. Tenants in building A are moving in. Several ladies have walked over to ask me if I will be in A and I tell them Z. Each one looks amazed but none question my successful effort to not let anyone know, I am really a trespasser. B building is ready for occupancy. It won’t be long before somebody mentions me being on the stone benches almost every day and I am asked to leave.
A slight chill is in the fall air. Acorns roll, they seem to blow off the trees. Evening comes too soon. I walk toward the gate that so far isn’t locked and I slip on the wet acorns. Instantly I know my slip is worse than a mere slip. I not only feel the pain in my shin, I know I heard the bone go crack. Mr. Jason, A building manager, is leaving and sees me laying on the walkway, waving for help. Of course he stops. Of course, I tell him I am ok and he starts to leave. ‘Mr. Jason, I’m called ‘Reds’, like the trees but my name is Barbara. I didn’t want to bother you but I do need help. If I am right, I have broken my femur. Will you please call my friend, Madeline, 478-2545, and tell her where I am and she should come fast? ‘Madeline, Reds. I’ll call an ambulance before I call your friend. Don’t move an inch.’ He opens his blackberry and dials 911. You needn’t read any further if you think everything worked out swell and Jason and I eventually hit it off, got married, live in building C. You’d be wrong.
WE LIVE IN BUILDING D.
No comments:
Post a Comment