Penny Man

Chapter 6

6

Certain days I would be up before five, getting a head start, dealing with my truck. I'd sit there in the driver's seat, trying over and over to start the engine. There would be times of false hope where just as I thought luck was headed my way, it failed. If I was not rolling down that driveway in under fifteen minutes after the first attempt, I would just ride my bike, something I had no problem with.

I'd grab my flamed helmet, some cycling shorts, and a water bottle. No doubt, Georgia sunsets are spectacular, but there is nothing like her sunrises, especially on two wheels. I had to endure its powerful rays as I rode in from the flatness of western Atlanta. On a clear day where the sky was a mirror of the ocean, and the clouds were floating paradises where souls go to play, you'd find me pedaling to work.

The air was heavy, not easy to breathe, it took many cycling sessions to build up my endurance. The incentive of refusing to tarnish my on-time record, allowed my body to push through any amount of pain. I kept my mind busy by taking in the sights of the county. There was a mentality out there, so relaxed, you wanted to be a part of it.

I'd pass the same group of hillbilly rednecks on any given day, four different families. They were thin people, had their belts tight to keep their blue jeans up. They wore hats that had been stylish a hundred years previous, and grooming their facial hair was of no concern. The children were scraggly little things, hyper. The one girl with the buck teeth, never took her eyes off of me when I passed. The freckled boy with a fat head, had some type of a fascination with guns, always holding his Pa's shotgun. He always made me swerve when I passed. I just made sure to never make any form of eye contact.

They had hundreds of acres that spanned over eight miles on Polly Street. They flew their Confederate flags with pride, to the disapproval of most, though that did not bother them. Their homes must have been built no later than the nineteen teens, the shingles were only held down by the remaining few staples they'd done themselves. They were an odd bunch, didn't enjoy the presence of outsiders. If I got too close to their precious crops, and they'd let me know. Their ear-piercing hollers was enough of a convincer for me, but to make sure I got the message, they'd grab hold of their rusty rakes.

While never talking to them, I still got a feel of the type of folks they were, and in a way, I took a liking to me. They'd be out on their fields singing songs about what life had once been. They didn't enjoy the speed the world was progressing at. They wanted to keep life simple with family being their ultimate source of happiness. They didn't need the luxuries of the newest phone or the newest kicks. What mattered to them was the sun was shining and their houses were still standing. They were no doubt too radical for my taste and were far too hostile to anyone outside of their blood, but I had a feel for who they were.

I stumbled through the sliding doors, absorbing as much oxygen as I could, my lungs had been deflated to the maximum. I had locked my bike and now needed a fresh application of deodorant. A nose numbing odor followed my path, strangulating anyone who was unfortunate enough to endure its wrath. A puddle of sweat ran down my armpits, making them unbearably itchy. It was a difficult itch to address, scratching would appear as a muscle spasm, on the other hand I could lose my sanity if I didn't confront the issue. Only would it be my fortunate that someone would find me nearly tearing off my shirt to reach it and have a phone ready to capture it.

The Anchor's Den, a wacky souvenir shop that had been around since the seventies, never disappointed when it came to grabbing a mobile breakfast. Their shelves were filled with snow globes, t-shirts, snacks, plastic cars, and other accessories nobody needed. They had been known for their candies, by far the best in the airport. Their prices reached as high as two hundred dollars for a milk chocolate giraffe.