Slurpees
Tales of love and family.
Earlier this summer, a little girl from around the corner came to my house asking if she could wash her face in my sink. Her lips and cheeks were bright blue from a Blueberry Yuza Lemonade Slurpee. We got her face cleaned up and I pointed out to her that she had bright blue drips all down her white shirt and she gasped — she was going to be in big trouble with her granny who was very, very mean. Now, I’d met her granny before and agreed with that assessment, so I took her shirt to get the stains out and sent her on up the road wearing one of mine, which came down to her knees.
Slurpees have a mystique to them, even if they are probably poison. I let my own child have them on occasion, imagining their dyes to be childhood’s embalming fluid, perfectly preserving every kid’s most fond memories.
But my favorite story about Slurpees involves adults.
Years back now, my friend Skip was hitchhiking to my house and he had to cross five states. The first ride was easy and got him part of the way through Alabama, but he’s a funny-looking guy who holds his face kinda crazy, so hours passed without him snagging another ride. A preacher got him into Montgomery, but left him at a gas station after determining his soul couldn’t be saved, and a trucker got him to Birmingham before Skip…
