The Holiday Picnic - Part 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 07, 2018

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Submitted: July 07, 2018

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Part 2

Lois after getting the additional supplies of paper plates, mustard, ketchup and charcoal drove back on 878 to the picnic site on Beach 16th Street. However, thirty minutes later she drives back to the supermarket to pick up more hamburgers and hot dogs, along with buns, because many more family members than expected arrive for the holiday fun.

Vaughn can be seen in the pilot sear of his fate as he faces fire, charcoal, and intense heat on a day that delivered its promise of ninety. The holiday heat index in elevated joy at his participation crowns him, as he continues to collide with its twisting smoke, he seemingly almost headless from a distance as it devours with delight the air around him.

“More, more, more,” Vaughn’s thoughts tell him as he sees an overwhelming horde of humans, so called relatives storm in.

“They’ll be dropping out of the sky with parachutes soon,” Vaughn states aloud.

He, in between flipping burgers, actually looks up several times, but the faces on those things descending are birds: doves, gulls, sparrows, and starlings.

Vaugh isn’t sweating or even crying while at work, because the hear from the grill burns away any sightings. After two hours of cooking Myron parks his black Volkswagen, and with his cooking utensils in a bag arrives to provide relief.

“Hey man, you really got it goin’,” Myron comments.

Vaughn recognizing Myron’s voice, turns to see his slender, bearded face.

“You made it,” Vaughn states, laughing and crying at the same time.

Myron takes out his equipment and immediately takes over. “I brought the London broil.”

“You started it?” Vaughn.

“Yeah, I started cooking at sunlight when I got word my uncle was sick, I’m done, that freed me to get over here,” Myron advises. Myron puts the London broil steak, in its foil, on the charcoals in the pit. “Chill out, Vaughn, I got it.”

Vaughn nods his head yes then walks away lighting up a cigarette and grabbing a beer out of the cooler.  He walks over the grass toward the water. The sand finds his feet first, as he sits down and removes his shoes, after which he sips his beer, and looks out at the Atlantic Ocean, as he thinks.

“I could swim to Africa. I’m telling you, I’ll never come back. I’d become a fisherman. Never. Never. Never, would I barbeque, never. No barbeque, punks. I’d sell my fish on the pier and sleep in the boat. The stinkin’, old, rotten boat. I’m telling you I’d never cook again, the only fire I’d go near is to light my cigarette. The fish I’d eat raw, raw, I said. No letters. No correspondence. No one would ever, ever know, that I ever barbequed, not once. I wouldn’t look at a barbeque, or a grill or a hot dog. A hamburger would put me in post-traumatic shock. They’ll never know. No one will know. I won’t know. I’ll have myself brainwashed. I won’t know. You won’t know. Repeat after me Vaughn Waglen, you don’t know, and never knew, and will never know, the meaning of the word barbeque. Barbeque? Barbeque? Sounds French? I can’t speak French…never. My mane is nobody, goodbye.”

 

The End

 


© Copyright 2018 Allen Henriquez. All rights reserved.

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