• Mathura Hawley

susan

Updated: Aug 1, 2021


I imagined I had a wife named Susan and she didn't mind when I was out on my motorcycle. She was cool that way..."

One late summer day when I was about nine, my entire neighborhood of kids was out playing and came together in W.J.'s driveway. Some shot baskets off the garage hoop, others sat at a picnic table playing games, and some of us were on our bikes, riding up and down the street. The energy of everyone interacting was more intense and exciting than usual, and it felt like a mini-series of young life going on, with me as one of the characters. I had a "Vrooom" plastic play motor on my bike, which had a key and made a sound like a motorcycle when you pedaled. For the first time, I had an overwhelming feeling that I belonged, that I was a part of something, and I allowed myself to let go and stay in character. I imagined I had a wife named Susan and she didn't mind when I was out on my motorcycle. She was cool that way, trusting me and allowing me to do what I wanted, even guy things. I signaled and pulled over at the curb, pretending to call her, asking what she was up to and laughing at what she said. She wasn't just my girl, she was my best friend. I wasn't alone. She loved me and was waiting for me to come home, and when I got there she would be glad to see me with just a knowing look. W.J. rolled up next to me. "Want to ride up to the parking lot?" he asked. "Yes," I answered. "I just have to tell Susan."


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