Hoagie Day
I went to bed at three thirty last night. These days, it's early for me. My sister comes in and out of the room as she usually does, asking me to sign her into my laptop, as she goes to see my mother. When she comes back she hands me a twenty, and says, "Six hoagies, hot peppers on the side." I am way too tired for this crap, but it is the third Saturday of the month, it is one of the first six months of the year, and the Audubon Fire Department is selling these hoagies for half their street value.
I put on my coat, and within five minutes of being woken up, I am ready to go. My dad is arguing with my sister over who would get the soda out of the car. My cousin already did it, but is still recovering from surgery. I have a feeling my sister was probably asked to run this errand in the first place, but I don't complain (much). I don't hear the fire trucks, which usually blare around Audubon at this time as if the high school were on fire.
I remember about five years ago, when we were cleaning my grandfather's house, and he wasn't feeling well. Washing off a plastic mat full of dog crap, I heard a very loud siren. I thought to myself, either my family called 911, or half the town was ablaze, it was that urgent. Then I heard someone crying out of a bullhorn, HOAGIE SALE! ONLY THREE DOLLARS EACH!!! We didn't get hoagies that unseasonably warm February afternoon, but we would finally have to call the paramedics. My grandfather would not return to his house, passing away almost a week later.
Today, the hoagie doesn't taste as good as usual. I don't think it has to do with this memory, but it doesn't help.