Pushcart prize XXXII, 2008 : best of the small presses by Henderson Bill;Pushcart Press & Pushcart Press

Author:Henderson, Bill;Pushcart Press & Pushcart Press
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Collections, Literature - Classics / Criticism, Literature: Classics, American - General, Literary Collections / General, General, 20th century, American literature, History and criticism, Small presses
Publisher: Wainscott, N.Y. : Pushcart Press ; New York : Distributed by W.W. Norton
Published: 2008-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Vikings storming across the brickwork to pillage and plunder. We pass a Mexican restaurant, a quilting shop, a pharmacy with dala horses and trolls in the windows, a business that makes furniture for motor homes. The few grass seed farmers and truck drivers who are up already are guzzling coffee from Styrofoam cups they bought at the Dari-Mart.

Silas flicks a finger at the supermarket ahead. "I've got to buy some groceries. You want off anywhere in particular?"

The supermarket is open, every light on and glaring through the spotless windows. "There." I point to a row of shops across the highway.

Silas squints at the low-lying building. "You live there?"

"No, I work there. At my aunt's beauty salon."

He pulls into the parking lot, parks the pickup, and tugs at his beard. "You cut hair, huh?"

I smile, open the door, and slide out of the pickup, fishing for my keys in my purse, the ridiculous high heels in my hand. "Thanks for the ride, Silas."

He nods, looking past me to the salon, his long fingers still in his beard. "What time do you open?"

"9:00," I tell him.

He nods again.

I turn away, angling across the parking lot in my bare feet, my keys jangling against the shoes. Silas waits for me to get to the door. Only when I've unlocked it and stepped safely inside does he wave goodbye. He puts the Ford in gear and pulls across the highway to the supermarket.

I can see the fuzzy-edged reflection of the grocery store, the parking lot, and the highway in the mirrors of the salon. Silas' pickup is a slowly rolling, blood-colored blob pulling into the almost empty lot. It sits in the corner of my vision even as I go to the back room to change into the comfortable clothes and shoes I keep in a plastic bin on the shelf above the surplus towels and aprons. My blouse smells of Pete Schlotszky as I pull it off over my head. His cologne, spilled margaritas, cigarettes. Peder Shlolakov used to smell like books, paper and glue, and coffee. And Silas smells of pitch and wood smoke and rain. The mix of them in my nose is like the array of shampoo bottles that line one wall of the salon—a whole world of scents and promises, some true and others doubtful.

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