Lazy Lion
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Fuquay-Varina, NC 27526
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Riding the Dragon by Drew
Williams
This siren is different.
It’s not the dull, long note in g-minor we’ve all grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. It’s
not the same sound that has been sending us to the shelters, testing to see how
quickly an entire city can force itself into a few square blocks of brick and
mortar cellars.
This siren is beeping, a high-pitched staccato strangely reminiscent of a machine gun. When
this siren goes off, we all turn toward the large glass exit doors, each of us
straining our necks for a better view of what is coming, but all we see is the
blue sky and the reflection of the sun off the cars lined up in the parking lot.
It only takes a moment for our eyes to comprehend the absolute normalcy of the
moment before we turn to each other, our faces mirroring each other’s fear.
The girl behind the cash register gasps and drops the quart of milk she was ringing up. It hits the
floor sideways and splits open. She pauses, only for a second, to look down at
the low fat milk that is slapping against her shoes like tiny waves. Then she
starts to run.
She heads for the glass doors, which open automatically. She doesn’t look back, she just runs out
into the parking lot and the warm sun of this perfect day. Then she turns to the
left and sprints toward the shelter that is nine blocks away.
For a moment, we all stand still, listening to the ripping sound of the siren and watching as
the counter girl disappears amidst the minivans and SUV’s. When she is no longer
visible we react. Pushing aside shopping carts and display cases of
potato chips and batteries, we push as one toward the door. No one shouts, no one says a word.
We just move.
For the past few weeks we have been told that there was a chance that they might have the
ability to deliver a nuclear attack. The chance was slim, almost nonexistent,
but the air raid sirens that had lain dormant for fifty years were brought
back into service. As were the shelters, antiquated recesses in the basements
of buildings designed to withstand the bombs and missiles of an enemy that had
long ago graduated to much more powerful and lethal weapons.
We were assured that the drills were only precautionary; that events would never come to this.
So we jogged and walked to the nearest shelter each time we heard the siren’s
long, low blare. We went laughing, smiling and waving to each other, enjoying
the camaraderie of security. But this siren is different.
I’m almost to the open door when my son’s hand slips from mine. At first I don’t realize that he
is no longer beside me, and I take another three steps to the door. Then I feel
his absence from my side and I turn.
My son is two, a miniature replica of me but only with his mother’s eyes. He’s grinning and
pointing to a spot hidden behind a newspaper rack. I take a step toward him
intent on scooping him into my arms and dashing the mile to the nearest shelter.
But I’ve seen that grin before; and I know what is concealed behind the wall of
newspapers.
It’s a six-foot green dragon wearing blue sneakers and a lopsided red baseball cap, an oversized
model of the supermarket chain’s mascot. My son runs up to the dragon and
strokes its smooth, metal sides. He turns to me and holds out his hand. It’s our
game, our supermarket ritual that we have played out ever since his first steps.
He giggles and points to the coin slot, oblivious to the burping siren, unaware of what is
heading our way.
What just a few minutes ago was a slim to nothing chance.
All he knows is that this is the point in our game where I hoist him
onto the dragon’s saddle and slip a quarter into the slot. It is the prelude to
the sixty seconds of gentle shaking that make up the ride.
I still want to run, overwhelmed with a hopeless but instinctive drive for self-preservation.
I still want to do some kind of gesture, no matter how primal, that I can take
with me that will attest to the fact that I tried to protect my son.
But I also have quarters in my pockets.
I always do when we go to the supermarket, and my son knows that. It’s part of the game.
So I lift him onto the saddle and slip a quarter into the slot and watch as he rides the dragon.
He laughs and I can’t help but smile even though I know the last precious
moments of his childhood are being counted down by the wagging tail of a metal
dinosaur.
When the ride stops I estimate it has been three minutes since the siren went off. How much
more time, I wonder. Six? Seven minutes?
Probably less than five.
That’s it. Five minutes and then everything changes.
My son swivels atop the dragon’s back and takes my hand.
“Again,” he says.
Could I run a mile in five minutes while holding him?
Would it matter?
“Again.”
There are three quarters in my pocket, and I start to panic. Then I remember where I am. I take
a quick glance over my shoulder at the open cash register pregnant with
quarters.
Sure, I tell him, and slip another coin into the slot.
And as long as the quarters hold out, my son and I, his hand cradled in mine, will be one and
ride the dragon together.
Back to Drew Williams
Riding
the Dragon © Drew Williams
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