I was reminded of a story I read in college the other day as I was running through the streets of Mount Kisco at dusk. It was assigned to me by my friend and teacher Catherine Dent.
As I was running, a few cars drove by me with their lights off. As they came towards me I would stick my hands out at them and flash my hands open and closed. I would yell, "lights! your lights!" Sometimes people would turn them on. Sometimes I would turn my head as I ran to see if they turned them on. Once a cab driver yelled out "thank you!" Sometimes though, nothing would happen at all and they would drive down the darkening streets without their lights. It always seemed to be the darkest colored cars on the darkest streets. The ones with big trees and no street lights.
The story I was reminded of is called Lights and it's by Stuart Dybek in his collection of short stories called The Coast of Chicago. It's certainly on of the best collections of stories I read in college, and I'm still thankful to Dr. Catherin Dent for having us read it.
Here is the story in its entirety:
In summer, waiting for the night, we'd pose against the afterglow on corners, watching traffic cruise through the neighborhood. Sometimes, a car would go by without its headlights on, and we'd all yell, "Lights!"
"Lights!" we'd keep yelling until the beams flashed on. It was usually immediate- the driver honking back thanks, or flinching embarrassed behind the steering wheel, or gunning past, and we'd see his red taillights blink on.
But there were times-who knows why?- when drunk or high, stubborn, or simply lost in that glide to somewhere else, the driver just kept driving in the dark, and all down the block we'd hear yelling from doorways and storefronts, front steps, and other corners, voices winking on like fireflies: "Lights! Your lights! Hey, lights!"
I haven't seen Catherine since the fall of 2009 when we ate avocado sandwiches with her husband Silas, and two children. I was visiting my brother in Selinsgrove that weekend, and was given a speeding ticket a half mile away from the exit. My mind was elsewhere.
I haven't seen some of my other favorite professors, like Kim van Alkemade and Jim Edwards, since leaving college four years ago now even though Matt and I seem to go back almost every year for the boxing Home Show.
Maybe I'll write one of them a letter. Maybe it'll help me get back to writing more, or reading more. The other day, outside a small bookstore in Pleasantville that doesn't allow food or drinks inside, literary journals were being sold out of a red wagon on the sidewalk for a dollar a piece, or ten for five bucks. It was a deal I couldn't pass up for journals that I may never actually read.
As I was running, a few cars drove by me with their lights off. As they came towards me I would stick my hands out at them and flash my hands open and closed. I would yell, "lights! your lights!" Sometimes people would turn them on. Sometimes I would turn my head as I ran to see if they turned them on. Once a cab driver yelled out "thank you!" Sometimes though, nothing would happen at all and they would drive down the darkening streets without their lights. It always seemed to be the darkest colored cars on the darkest streets. The ones with big trees and no street lights.
The story I was reminded of is called Lights and it's by Stuart Dybek in his collection of short stories called The Coast of Chicago. It's certainly on of the best collections of stories I read in college, and I'm still thankful to Dr. Catherin Dent for having us read it.
Here is the story in its entirety:
In summer, waiting for the night, we'd pose against the afterglow on corners, watching traffic cruise through the neighborhood. Sometimes, a car would go by without its headlights on, and we'd all yell, "Lights!"
"Lights!" we'd keep yelling until the beams flashed on. It was usually immediate- the driver honking back thanks, or flinching embarrassed behind the steering wheel, or gunning past, and we'd see his red taillights blink on.
But there were times-who knows why?- when drunk or high, stubborn, or simply lost in that glide to somewhere else, the driver just kept driving in the dark, and all down the block we'd hear yelling from doorways and storefronts, front steps, and other corners, voices winking on like fireflies: "Lights! Your lights! Hey, lights!"
I haven't seen Catherine since the fall of 2009 when we ate avocado sandwiches with her husband Silas, and two children. I was visiting my brother in Selinsgrove that weekend, and was given a speeding ticket a half mile away from the exit. My mind was elsewhere.
I haven't seen some of my other favorite professors, like Kim van Alkemade and Jim Edwards, since leaving college four years ago now even though Matt and I seem to go back almost every year for the boxing Home Show.
Maybe I'll write one of them a letter. Maybe it'll help me get back to writing more, or reading more. The other day, outside a small bookstore in Pleasantville that doesn't allow food or drinks inside, literary journals were being sold out of a red wagon on the sidewalk for a dollar a piece, or ten for five bucks. It was a deal I couldn't pass up for journals that I may never actually read.
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