grids

the boys ride their bicycles to the north edge of town, to railway avenue, two blocks up from the grocery store and one and a half blocks across from the grain elevators. the train had sparked yesterday afternoon climbing the hill it always climbs, by the carleton's yard, and all the surrounding ditches are charred and flaking like crappy old acrylic paint discs in the school's art room.

the siren had called for the town's fourteen volunteer firefighters, but for insurance purposes they couldn't pass the outside edge of town with the truck.

the boys lean their bicycles against the nelson's garage and push the gate open, the one that doesn't close properly because one of the hinges is off and the lock doesn't match up. mr. nelson's yard is getting pretty wild, and the boys promise to get the lawnmower out of the garage for him after they use his barbeque for lunch. mr. nelson doesn't use his barbeque much, but there are still some coals in the bottom.

the summer is hot in a way that makes all the growth yellowish and scratchy on the part of the boys' legs that is above their socks and below their shorts. they both have scabs on their knees, but the one always picks the crusty part back on his, so it has a tight whitish-pink scar around the edges and a dark blood centre. when the grass in the nelsons' yard tickles him he scratches it again, and wipes the little bit of blood from his fingers to his shorts.

they get the coals going pretty easily, and then dig in their pockets for change to buy hotdogs. they're not interested in buns, just the pink hotdogs that come linked in plastic and nobody knows if they're raw or cooked or what. they walk the two blocks to the grocery store, wondering if they will be able to afford ketchup, or mustard, or both.


one of the boys doesn't really remember this story now, but the other, probably the one who picked at his scabby knees, he remembers everything. he remembers hearing that siren again, and how mrs. foley, who worked at the till at the grocery store, left midway through ringing in the ketchup to look out the window and see if she could see smoke. "seems like we've been hearing that thing too often lately!" she said.

there was a hole in the back of the barbeque or something, and the nelson's yard and garage probably caught fire long before the boys even got to the isle with plastic-linked hotdogs. neither one of them can really remember how much trouble they got in, or what was in that garage besides the lawnmower-- but the one boy, the one that remembers all the details, can recall standing on the street with a bottle of ketchup in his hand, wondering why the heck they hadn't rode their bicycles to the grocery store.