A Voice in the Darkness, a.k.a. Baby Locked In the Car

There is a voice who talks to me when I am not busy enough with writing shitty things. Lately (see last post) I've decided to listen to her instead of my figurines made of shit (I don't use a kiln, just the windowsill and the light from my laptop screen, in case you crafters out there are curious.)

It turns out she has a lot to say. I haven't been able to detect a theme with any of it yet, but maybe she's babbling so much because I've been ignoring her in the time of my life when I really shouldn't have--the last two years in a creative writing program. Boy can she talk. Nonsense, really. But here's the thing: it's all jampacked with such specificity, it's really hard to walk away from it. She is flashy, too, and likes name earrings.

She is not an asshole, but she does struggle with remaining invested in the world. She carries around a 30 foot cement tunnel to keep herself protected from things outside herself. She hasn't told me yet how she manages to function with that contraption.

In non-writing news,
I pulled up in the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble of Baton Rouge last week and just as I took the keys out of the ignition, I raised my eyes to see a woman about my age softly pounding on the backseat window of her car, then crumpling against the trunk--not dramatic, even though it sounds it. It was clear immediately that she had locked her keys in the car, and that something very important was in there with the keys.

It turned out to be her 9 year old baby named Mikayla. Mikayla was squealing with joy--at least, I'm pretty sure she was. She was squealing with joy on mute, waving at her mom with the ring of keys, on which the lock/unlock button tab rested under her tiny thumb.

We made lots of movements of excitement in the hopes Mikayla would punch the unlock button, but nothing doing. After twenty minutes, Mikayla became disheartened that her repeated outstretching of arms gesture didn't draw her mother through the glass and into a hug. Miakayla started to cry.

I started talking to other people in the parking lot because I didn't know what else to do. I didn't have my cell phone.

Luckily I chose an off-duty deputy sheriff from Livingston Parish who was browsing books on his day off. After he called Pop a Lock, he tried all the doors.

Guess what? Mikayala had come through after all. The driver's side door had popped open while she shoot and beat her fists to the beat made by the keys.

The mom and I hugged and cried. Then I went into the store and bought a book called How To Write a Novel in Thirty Days.
Sheesh.

Make your own connections between reality and voices you should unlock {here.}

When I have a baby, I hope I will remember not to let her have the keys.