Watch Your Temper

Chapter Ten: Folsom Prison Blues

        "Hi... I was wondering, how far is New York City from here?"

My plan was to bike home. Crazy? Yes. Stupid? For sure. But at that point, I was pretty desperate to get back home.

The man at the counter of The Greasy Spoon Diner looked up from his newspaper and gave me a toothy grin.

"Well, aren't you a little redneck?" he guffawed. I laughed nervously and tried to cover up my sunburned neck with my t-shirt.

"I reckon the Big Apple ought to be at least fifty miles away!"

So much for biking home, then.

I gave the man a wobbly smile and thanked him. Slowly, I approached the door and walked out, into the cool, fresh air. With a sigh, I hopped on the bike Beth let me borrow, and peddled back out to the cottage. I passed a few run-down, old abandoned houses, and it made me feel sad. It felt like the houses were almost... betrayed by their owners.

That was like how I felt. Betrayed.

Somehow, that fact got me thinking. I don't know why, but I stopped pedaling and jumped off the bike, ditching it out on the dirt road. I walked up to one of the rusty houses, and spilled the contents of my pockets into my hand.

A button, a shoe lace, a stick of gum, and a candy wrapper. How much damage could I possibly do with those four measly objects? I could really use a baseball bat right about now.

Without another thought, I brought my leg up, kicking hard into the fragile glass door. It shattered, and a few pieces cut me. I ignored the dull sting of blood and walked inside. An ancient velvet couch sat in the corner, next to a wooden coffee table and a lopsided lamp. Broken pictures were nailed to the walls, and the dirty carpet beneath my feet was covered in stains.

I began my process of calming down.

You see, people always wondered why my name is Temper. Why? Why such a weird, unusual name?

For one week after I was born, I was left unnamed. My parents were seriously having a hard time naming me. My mother once told me I looked so unique. so ethereal, that she thought no name would ever suit the beauty of my features. My father, on the other hand, said I was unlike any newborn he had ever seen-- I looked so tense and frustrated. 

Seven full days later, they finally found the perfect name.

I was wearing a purple jumper and I would not stop crying, no matter how hard my parents tried to soothe me. I was just a little brat from the start.

"Oh, you have such a temper!" my mom remarked, and then it hit her.

I had a nasty temper. I was wearing a violet jumper. Temper + Violet = Temper Violet Adagio. And that was how I got my name.

I guess that temper stuck with me, even after all those years. Because at that exact moment, I had just kicked a hole through a wall. Coming out of my thoughts and back into my "process," I ripped apart a dusty pillow on the couch, and tore down numerous pictures. I

I just needed to take my anger out on something, so why not this deserted shack?

Thoughts of George, Lauren and my parents slipped from my mind, and I was left with a cold, bitter feeling. I continued to tear apart the lonely, empty house until after sunset. Just as I finished breaking the coffee table, I froze. 

What in the hell was I doing?

I felt embarrassed, to say the least. Embarrassed that I had let my temper control me. Embarrassed that I had destroyed the quaint little house. Embarrassed that George hated me.

I felt like crying, but there were no tears left to shed. I was numb. I bit hard into the inside of my cheek, and barely flinched when I swallowed the metallic taste of blood on the ragged skin. I was a wimp. I just stood there, frozen in time, with my head ducked low and my face burning red.

Finally, I broke out of my trance. I straightened my posture and took a deep breath, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I glanced at my watch, and felt relieved that it was only after supper. Nobody would be too mad.

"I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?" I whispered to the forlorn house, like it was a person. As if on cue, the last picture hanging fell to the ground with a clang, and I stiffened.

"I'll take that as a...yes," I muttered, and practically flew out the front door. The cuts on my face were now dried and sticky, and I felt weak. I wasn't sure if I would be able to bike my way back to the cottage.

I stared limply at the bike in front of me, and scratched the back of my sweaty neck. 

"I'm kind of a piece of shit."

I didn't know who exactly I was speaking to. Maybe the bike, or perhaps the moon above me. Possibly the tall grass, or the trees across the road. It could have been the winding road itself, or the howling wind.

But whatever the reason, I suddenly found everything funny. Very funny.

I laughed a few times, and realized how cliche this all seemed to be. Just my luck. I crouched down on the grass and picked apart a dandelion, when I heard several loud honks. I jerked my head up, and smiled.

"What happened to you? You look like you just fell off a cliff!"

I snorted. "It's a long story."

George climbed out of the driver's seat of the Arbing's silver Buick and helped me load the bike into the trunk. We hopped in and slammed the doors.

"Honestly, I don't know if I ever want to see a red velvet couch again!" I exclaimed, clonking my head up against the back of the seat.

"What do you mean?" he asked, putting the car into drive.

"I tore one apart! It took me forever, though..." I mumbled.

"So that's where you've been! I was starting to get worried. I mean, your parents were. I knew you were fine. Obviously. You know?" he sputtered, a deep scarlet blush appearing on his cheeks.

"You can tell me if you like me," I teased, punching his arm lightly as we drove along.

"What? Ew, no! Girls have cooties," he protested in a childish voice.

I giggled. "Shut up. But... hey! Do you even have a license?"

"Technically, no, but I have a permit. My mom allowed me to drive around for a while, to try and find you. There's not much traffic anyway," George explained. 

"That brings up another question. How did you know where I was?" I pressed him.

"I don't really know. I was just wandering around these abandoned roads, figuring I'd be able to find you at some point or another," he declared.

"Well, you succeeded," I said, rocking back into my seat. We rode on in silence for a minute, and I turned up the radio.

"Ooh! I love this song!" I cried. It was Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues."

"No way! Same," he exclaimed, a dorky grin smearing its way onto his face.

I opened the window, letting the wind rustle through my hair as I enjoyed the twangy song.

"I... do like you, you know," George whispered randomly.

"I like you too, I guess. When you're not being a lying jerk," I replied, and we both laughed.

"Sorry for that... I'm fine with you spray-painting that pier, now. It was actually kind of cool looking... just promise me you won't do it again."

"Sure," I said, smiling to myself. 

Maybe this Arbing kid wasn't so bad after all.

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Love me some Johnny Cash! Please comment, vote and fan! Thanks :)

-Jenna