Waning of the Moon

They were a Moonchild, that little one who grew up amongst the people and the creatures and the trucks and roads. Their light was a reflection of the sunny days in which they lived. And when those days were gone, cast to black in the shadow of a passing bird, their light became dark. But those days had not come, not just yet.

When Charlie had been younger, the crisp sunbeam that on occasion would greet him through the westward window of his trailer had been nauseating. The thought of wasting half a day's play on useless sleep was truly the greatest of shames for such a lad, but now in a growing body of eighteen years, even Charlie appreciated such luxuries.

Drifting pips of dust congregated in the midday light, distant rumbles of construction that rolled in like concrete thunder, these were the treasures of his asphalt world, and he held them dear.

Charlie took the afternoon he called morning low and slow. Ruffling his birdnest hair that had only reddened deeper with age, smiling a smile so bright and proud into a smudged mirror that you could hardly notice the few missing teeth.

He had his plans for the day, had his basketball shorts, his tank top, and all the time in the world. His little world was all his, and always would be, he was sure of it.

No one could call him a slacker either, though on occasion he felt like it, given just how much he enjoyed his responsibilities around here. The Road Pizza Parlor always needed new repairs given its wild occupance, and each new fix brought fresh new ideas to his constantly running mind. Yes, today would be more of the same, but the same was always something new, and Charlie couldn't wait.

“Charlie you bright lil’ booger, ya did it!”, the boy had barely gotten his door open before being lifted into the backbreaking embrace of his father. Blinking away the invading sunlight was all he could do in the moment, before finally coming around to the sudden greeting and hugging his old man back.

“I do a lotta’ things Pa, might wanna be a bit more specific eh?” He reached around the huge back of the man and gave him a pat, like a hummingbird hitting the broadside of a barn. “You never get tired of playin’ dumb do ya, I mean this!” his son dropped down into his looming shadow, and was quickly presented with a smooth pressed letter.

“Louisiana state kid, Louisiana state!” In his utter joy at the acceptance letter, Charlie's dads accent slipped in as it tended to do, pronouncing the word “loosey anna”.

“Yeah, I-... It was actually a couple’a schools I heard back from Pa’.” Charlie made certain he was heard whenever he spoke, but talking to his elated Father now, he couldn’t help but mutter his words. “ It ain’t a big deal ya know, talkin’ people into things is kinda what we do around here-”.

Charlie's Father broke from his celebratory pace, turning to his Son with such a fervent jolt that something told Charlie his pa’ wasn’t about to agree with him.

“Hot Mic, our family's little tricks don’t have anything to do with your academic accomplishments. If it did, people like Big Po would be a regular Einstein, ol’guys mind could find a termite in a red wood forest, but the man can hardly add two plus two.”

It was true, the denizens of Shrinktown, and the many places like it that lined the blacktop veins of the country had a list of very specific skillsets. The town itself, though more of a trailer park at the time, had been called such for having the greatest psychiatric therapists the seventies had ever known.

So empathic were the old souls of that dusty lot, snazzy businessmen burdened with dark secrets to greasy druggies looking for spiritual enlightenment would come visit on the weekly.

If you really wished to seek their services however, it wasn’t just the sketchy highway straddling location you’d have to nerve. In contrast with their sagacious reputation, the men and women of Shrinktown were rustic souls. Missing teeth replaced with gold screws, unkept beards and unshaven legs, even the occasional missing limb, a far flung sight from the neat Therapist archetype you’d see in the soaps.

No, these men and women, in all their wisdom and insightfulness were indeed not professionals. Nor, as any of them would freely admit, were they particularly all that insightful or wise. They were just retired truckers, the lot of ‘em, and they had found a way to shift those years of talent towards a different profession.

What talents could those possibly be, that were so beneficial in such drastically different fields? Well, that's what made the folks of Shrinktown so special.

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Each little crunch of debris under the heavy eighteen tires made Charlie shutter limply. He’d been hauling the huge metal boxes to and fro across the lot since he was sixteen, fifteen technically but that was a secret between him and Uncle Ivory, but he’d never gotten comfortable with such heavy machinery.

Being around them was fine, he had spent his whole life around big trucks and cargo after all. But being inside was like holding responsibility for the potential damage such a manmade beast could cause, and the experience of it was simply unnerving to him. Maybe it was because his family's way of life revolved around the machines, but fearful respect was just Charlie's relationship with the kings of the asphalt jungle.

But today he had just one short trip to make. The Parlor needed some major renovations after years of housing its wild little tenets, and he’d finally gotten the go ahead to make the upgrades.

In the decade and some years since he found those “cats, Charlie's efforts and natural cocktail of charm and whimsy turned the infested shipping container into a vermin paradise. But more than that, his little pet project became something of a mascot for the misfit community of Shrinktown.

In those strange little parts of the road, where everyday feels like a waking dream and time stands still as the world moves on, communities tend to stick close together. And in such places, the passion of one young heart can quickly grow into a tradition adored by young and old alike.

Charlie's grip around the wheel of the eighteen wheeled Idol tightened as it came to a halt, break’s hissing like the exhale of some great behemoth. The one foot fall from the cabin to the ground below was a relief, the pressure of benevolent presence lifted and responsibility waived.

Stepping back a ways from the truck bed mounted subject of his attention, Charlie admired his work, and he couldn't have held back his wide toothy grin had he even tried.

True, the initial idea brought some pushback, particularly from his Father, “We can’t just have a box full’a dirty wild animals on the property Hot Mic!”. His dad had always been one to worry about how folks saw them, didn't wanna come off as dirty trucker rednecks Charlie supposed. But even so, it was never really about the community, or the station, Charlie's Pa’ cared about his son. He didn’t want his child restricted to the path of tradition, the world was bigger than just this dusty lot, and it needed someone like Charlie in it.

But Charlie liked this lot, and as he saw it, it needed him as much as anywhere else. He knew he was bright, but he also saw how much he learned everyday from even the simple way the wind blew in such a place as Shrinktown.

In a way, the Road Pizza Parlor was the town's project, not just his. When Old lady luck found Charlie facedown in the gravel, burnt out from the paralysis of a blank canvas, she simply offered “How about some paint huh sweety? How’bout it?”. It was one of the last times he’d speak to the crone, but the lathering of expired blue-green color was all that was needed to get the boy going.

The deep cleaning of the inside was his Fathers idea of course, if they were gonna have a flea den it at least had to be spotless. But his efforts went rewarded when Charlie awoke the next day, flat out exhausted from the work, to see a beautiful set of stringed fairy lights rimmed along the outside of the box. No work got done that day of course, he’d danced himself back into exhaustion from the excitement.

Heat lamps for the stray cats, actual cats this time, those of course were Chrome Jim's donation from the garage. Glowing star stickers and slightly used chew toys from the Twinny Triplets, running water fountains operable by tiny racoon hands rigged up by Geronemo. Even Uncle Ivory, who’s detest of wildlife was made evident by his white mink coat, fell into the heart of the boy, dropping off his old velvet blankets in the middle of the night.

It was empty now of course, even in the warm winters of the deep south, the instinct of all but human seemed to stir life away from such a place as this. But even empty the Road Pizza Parlor made Charlie proud, proud of his home, and his family. “I can’t leave Pa’... Im real sorry but… I just can't.”

It really is a shame, what goes unsaid. The void left in the totally expected that never gets to be. The great things that pave the way for such awful tragedies. The disgusting nature of singular acts on otherwise peaceful days. “How damn stubborn hicks can be over their nasty little traditions, Charles.”