The Road Not Taken

by Mike Mayak

The two boys walked their bikes over to the shade of the big tree near the edge of the little town.

“Wow!” Kelvin said. “How hot is it anyway?”

“About 200 degrees, I figure.” Les said.

“Naaaah. But it’s got to be at least a hundred,” Kelvin said.

“Yeah,” less said.

The two of them stood there enjoying the slight summer breeze.

“How many summers have we done this, anyway?” Les asked.

Kelvin laughed. “A lot! We’re what, now, fourteen?”

“As of the first of August.” Les said.

The two boys were born a day apart and had celebrated their birthdays together since they could remember. It helped that they grew up next door to each other.

“Look down there,” Kelvin said, pointing down the alley.

Dirt and gravel road, lined with trees and phone poles stretching into the distance and seemingly framing a far off grain elevator.

“Yeah,” Les said.

“Someday I’m gonna go down that alley and walk right out of this town for good.” Kelvin said.

“And I’ll be right behind you,” Les said.

“Hey! I’ll race ya! C’mon!” Kelvin said, pulling his bike out from the tree.

“All right!” Les said jumping on his bike and peeling out from under the tree. They were not too old or mature to race down a dirt alleyway in the middle of a small-town summer.

In later years, the summers of their youth would blur in memory. Kelvin would fall head-over-heels with a local girl and wind up working for her father in town.

Les, after many misadventures would wind up working in Sacramento.

The hot California summers would sometimes make him think of that brightly-lit summer alleyway when they were both fourteen years old.

—end—