Fresh Ink 2020
MELINDA Joe A. Sainz Melinda’s silver helmet covered her natural red hair. She grew up next door, yet I neither knew her age nor what was wrong with her; no one ever explained the helmet to me. She looked early twenties. I didn’t even know who else lived in that house, since all I ever heard from there was an occasional scream. The only thing I was sure of at that moment was that I needed silence and peace after a 10-hour day, so I escaped to the lounge chair in my backyard that late New England November afternoon. Melinda walked through my fenceless property from her yard and stood before me. She rocked back and forth and blinked fast as she smiled with clasped hands over an out-of-fashion, tattered pink sweater. She stared at the ground in front of her, not at me. “Hi,” she said. “Oh. Well, hello there.” Couldn’t she tell I didn’t feel like talking now? Maybe a fence would not be such a bad idea after all. “You dirty,” Melinda said. She pointed at the old paint stains on the casual tee shirt that complimented my dirty sneakers and well-worn pants. “I guess you’re right; these are my hang-around clothes.” “What hang-around clothes?” “Clothes you wear at home. You know, comfortable, old clothes you don’t care much about.” She stared at a passing flock of birds and waved. “Bye, birdies. Bye.The birdies my friends, you know. They no make no fun of me.” I looked at Melinda’s yard with the hope that her mother was looking for her, but all I saw was a woman engrossed with repairing a 20-year old car. Her natural red hair draped over the radiator. Melinda’s rocking was more pronounced. She stared at the ground. “You work?” “Yes. I deliver stuff to people.” 42
