The best time of the year was the beginning of March. The green had not forced its way out of the winter scarred soiled. Everything was brown and dry green. The fingers of the trees reached far into the sky and almost touched making a tunnel with sun roofs. There was no breeze, and the sun was warm, not hot. It was exact, like putting a piece of plastic wrap on your face. There was only warmth exactly were there was no shade. The shade was like the moon, foreign. It was colder outside then it looked. That was just how she liked it.
Mckenzie, Mack, St. Matthew.
Her mother called her Mckenzie. That had to change. It sounded more like the name of a reservoir. She hid behind Mack for years. She was fated to be a tom boy. That never caught on. She was never girlie either. On another spectrum, plane, reality; somewhere in her mind she was St. Matthew. She was never into religion, and had no idea who that was. Religion was not tangible. She did however like music. St. Matthew was a song by a man that was in a band that she despised. That was tangible. That was something St. Matthew could dig, and clung onto it like a beatnik to a political analogy. “She calls herself St. Matthew when she is on the run.”
She cheated on St. Matthew frequently. There were other songs, “Motorcycle Irene”, by the Moby Grape, “Norwegian Wood”, by the Beatles, “Steve McQueen”, by Sheryl Crow, etc. She stole her identity form each beat. Music had a beat. Sometimes when a doctor would listen to her heart they could almost make out “Moby Grape”.
She was listening quietly to a concert show on the radio. St. Matthew was on the road in the left lane. In the slow lane about six car spaces before her there was a slow moving dump truck. Behind that back about six car spots was a Chevy truck moving in fast. St. Matthew sneered. It would be a cold day in hell, before that truck would pass her. She started revving the engine, and pulled forward. Too bad, she started too late, and the truck pulled in front of her. She was going to ram the truck, but noticed there was a mean people suck bumper sticker. I commend you truck. Up head the two lanes were merging. St. Matthew pulled ahead. There was no way she was going to get stuck behind the dump truck. She jetted forward. The truck blocked the heat from the sun. St. Matthew squinted her eyes. As she was getting close, she noticed that the truck was on the heels of a slow moving mini van. It signaled to move to the lane St. Matthew was in. Not today soccer mom. Soccer mom, was St. Matthew’s arch nemesis. She pulled ahead quickly. Soccer mom flipped St. Matthew off. St. Matthew gave a reverse peace sign and sped away.
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