“[Diane says] ... Baby you ain’t missing a thing…"
SHE PEERS through the kitchen window, which is just starting to reflect the salmon-colored shadows of dawn. In the background on the radio that old Mellencamp tune – back when he was called “Cougar” – sings about a couple sucking on chili dogs outside the Tastee Freeze.
Behind her is a sink full of spaghetti-stained plates bobbing in a greasy sea of cereal that must be washed. The baby sits in the booster chair wearing a lop-sided grin. The older boy flops in the blue haze of the living room, soaking in the prime-time world of cable cartoons.
“Gotta get cracking,” she thinks, grabbing a washcloth and swiping it over the toddler’s face. She hustles the other boy up from his TV-induced trance after the show ends and gets them ready for day care.
Use to be that tears would come at that point; now it was just a long, drawn-out sigh and be done with it.
Get up again tomorrow and start all over again.
But at least she was working in an economy shakier than the San Andreas Fault. Nine hours each day of listening to people complain of “that doctor sure takes his time to for as much as he charges.” Nine hours of talking to insurance customer service androids and running down checks allegedly in the mail.
Checks, indeed. The one she has been waiting on from her ex via the courts has not yet arrived. In an age of electronic transactions she was marking time waiting for a note from the Jurassic period. She knows he’s trying.
“Jack, he’s gonna be a football star…”
HE GRINDS his calloused hands together and sips a tepid cup coffee. Knows he’s behind on support, but the recession has sent him and millions like him into a cyclone of uncertainty. Looking for a job is a full-time-by-God-quixotic quest. God knows he’s doing his best.
He looks at the photo of his sons, a snapshot of them of playing near the small town’s riverfront. It was one of those perfect days. A few hours when he could be a little boy himself, splashing the Ohio into their faces and providing them with a Happy Meal feast. And though not in the photo, he can see her – and him – standing together and grinning like dolphins at their two perfect creations.
He’ll see his kids next weekend.
“Well, better check in with my buds to see if they know of any openings,” he whispers to himself in that cheap apartment breakfast nook. God knows the Internet is far behind leads. Before he heads out, he checks a dirty pair of jeans to see if he has any spare money for gas.
Well, there’s enough for some fresh Speedway coffee. That’s a sort of fuel, eh?
She heads her way. He heads his way. In their quietest of moments, perhaps they wonder how and why they have taken different routes.
“… Little Ditty, about Jack and Diane. Two American kids growin’ up in the heartland…”
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