Sunrise at Casa Mcreynold's

  Early mornings in the McReynold’s household usually convene around five-thirty am with Warren, rising early with the sound of his coffee pot already electronically beeping out the Marseille, informing him that his menacing mocha dark bean concoction has been sufficiently ground and brewed in the you-can-learn-a-lot-from-a McReynolds XX home devised coffee bean grinder and brewer Warren concocted himself three summers ago during the seventh inning stretch at Fenway park before heading off down the street to his collegiate dig. Warren likes to exercise his brain, performing push-ups and sit-up with his cerebellum, as he likes to call them, working on hardcore nuclear physics and chaos mathematics and extrapolating discourses he himself proposed in a mathematical lexicon he also devised that sort of resembles a algebraic version of Sudoku. An hour after rise Warren likes to program his Mac X Xcoffee pot for another round and then strides in stealth as he steps outside, just as dawn in beginning to crack open her pink eyelids in the east. Most mornings Warren crouches in the yucca bushes that are planted in front of Casa McReynolds like dual sentinels and watches as solo-armed Harvey Liddle slams his screen door and waddles out to his flag pole, single handedly raising the flag while tooting the army Wake-up call into his bugle. In between generous swigs from his SEX—THE BEST TWO MINUTES OF MY DAY coffee mug, Warren derives a perverse pleasure out of ruthlessly tormenting French Luke, the paper boy, often jumping out of the bushes once the paper has been tossed onto the porch. Today, Warren has rigged the porch with miniature smoke bombs so that the second the Urinal Jar lands on the porch, the front of the porch will billow up with smoke, hopefully, scaring the shit out of French Luc.

 

            The neon-orange glare of the rising autumnal sun deeply smears the eastern lip of the atmosphere in pastel shades of morning pink-eye shadowy blue. Downs Circle is shaped like an abandon horseshoe two miles north of CLS academy, tossed and landed on the shore of the West Bluff, near the abandoned fast food AA clinic and squatters monastery, less than 100 meters from the crusty leaf-riddled edge of the Nuclear woods, a mysterious sylvan copse of illegitimate trees erupting in eccentric colors of sap, failed bark and other forms of lavender heliotrope rusty-green botany, leading into the gravel armpit graffiti of the skipper, which, on a good day, can take you straight beneath Farmington road, into the wooded vagina of Bradley park, near the tunnel Patrick, Tim and Von Behren once transitioned into their fortress, their hideout, their secret home.

 

To compliment the jingoistic bugle serenade Harvey Liddles offers the republican Gods every am and pm, Crazy Hoof, the Native American elder who inhabits the house down the street where Shannon Moore used to live, welcomes the onset of the morning dawn with a series of deep throat keens and spiritual ululations that seem to stem from a time signature just south of heaven as the golden shafts of the morning sun drips heavy in almost escalator-like rafts onto the cement pavement of the parabolic sad-suburban cul-de-sac where Patrick had lived for the previous two summers.

 

On the west side Casa McReynolds is flanked by the flying Garcia clan, a house composed entirely of a family of former circus clowns, whose backyard lawn consists entirely of a felt- green neon tarp  trampoline for a lawn.  

         There is bleep of the Marseille. There is an errant boomerang bowling pin hurled from the clowns next door. There is a shot and flag being raised while an albino squirrel topples into a splat.

Somewhere down the street smoke signals rise as if in prayer.  

            Throughout all this time Patrick remains upstairs, in his sleep, with Allan a mattress over. For some inexplicable scientific reason, whenever Patrick sleeps supinely on his back, all of the blood flows evenly like a damnation river inside his chest straight to his head, granting his body the appearance of a horizontal thermostat in a record breaking mid-august swelter. He sleeps through the confetti of Harvey Liddles gun shells splattering on his front sidewalk. He sleeps through the random smoke signals offered up in diminutive a-bomb configured steeples.  He sleeps through the routine miniature Warren induced explosion transpiring on the front steps of the abode which all his friends have coined “Casa.” He sleeps through the echoing carol of his mother’s voice, beckoning up the staircase chiming within the interior of his psyche, he sleeps through the  gaggle of clowns next door, he sleeps as if never wishing to wake up from a wished for dream.