Dreams and Cypress Trees

The song cut through the humid air despite the tinge of static, “…doctor, doctor, gimme the news, I gotta bad case of lovin you…”

“Orville, turn that down!” With one hand hold the cigarette out the window, one hand holding the beer, and a knee on the steering wheel, his mother didn’t have a free hand to adjust the radio. Orville knew this and tended to abuse the fact as far as he thought he could without earning himself a whuppin.

“Mah,” he stalled, leaving the song churning away out of the dilapidated station wagon’s AM/FM, “I like this song. It’s gonna be ’bout me.”

“You ain’t no doctor, Or-bear.”

“Nah, but I will be.” He turned to watch the telephone poles and cypress tress zipping by, pensive and quiet like he was making his big plans, dreaming his big 10year old dreams. Really, he was just hoping this would keep his mom occupied until the song was over.

“Turn it down or you won’t live to graduate high school.”


The song was quieted, but the dream lived on.

It had to.

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