I will continue to reprint some of my better nonfiction stories from the past in an effort to both preserve those stories and to encourage me to write new ones.  Many of these stories were lost for years due to digital incompatability.

Junky Fried Eggs and Lady Fingers
by Noahjohn Dittmar (1995)

    My mother and I moved into Lenny's house a couple of years after my mother's lover Nancy died. Lenny was an old acquaintance of my mother's. We needed a place to stay; Lenny offered us a spare room. Lenny lived in a house dwarfed by pine and oak trees. Sun, wind, and rain had ravaged the house for years. Its paint had peeled and cracked; greenish-yellow flakes littered the ground. A chicken wire fence enclosed a yard filled with tufts of yellowish grass, weeds, anthills, and dandelions. The Florida sun scorched everything. I could crush a pinecone into dust with my tiny hands.
    Lenny had tried to fry eggs on the concrete when the temperature reached 107 in July. Cracked pavement stained with eggs and bits of shell covered a portion of the yard leading to the front door. Lenny and I stood in the door frame facing the concrete yard. I began to step onto the cement; Lenny grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back.
    "Hey, little man. Don't go out there bare foot. You'll burn ya feet." Lenny had a deep, husky voice. He spoke slowly, enunciating vowels as if he were yawning or sighing.
    "No, I won't!" I shouted and laughed at him. Lenny was funny looking. He was over six feet tall, thin and wiry. He had a fat nose, a frail neck, and a big head covered with curly black hair that dangled below his collarbone. He wore a sweat soaked tank top and a tight pair of jean shorts.
    Lenny was a junkie. When he spoke to me, his head drooped. I feared he might fall on me. I stood away from him. His sweat smelled like sour milk.
    "I'm serious, Noahjohn" he said. "Hop on my foot. I wanna show ya something." Lenny held two eggs in front of my face. He winked and smiled. "Come on. Hop on my foot."
    I stepped onto his tennis shoe and hugged his leg. My head reached his knee. I poked his calf. His skin felt rubbery. Lenny walked to the center of the pavement with me clutching his leg. I grinned as I rode his foot through the air.
    "Watch this!" Lenny dropped the eggs on the concrete. They burst open, splattering cool, sticky goo on my feet and legs. The clear parts of the egg traveled in long streams. At their thinnest points, the eggs solidified and turned white.
    "See. It's cooking. It's cooking!"  Lenny bellowed and giggled, and then snorted so abruptly it sounded like a hiccup. He coughed and cleared his throat.
    "Now, you'll wear shoes, won't ya?"
    "Yep."
    Lenny loved to joke with me. Once, my mother and I stood in the yard when Lenny walked up to us. A dopey grin stretched across his cheeks. He kneeled, placed his hand in front of my face, and made pincers with his index finger and thumb. "Show me your crab claws," he said. I shoved my hand in his face and tried to pinch his nose. He grabbed my wrist and stuck a tiny firecracker in my pinchers. The firecracker was a quarter inch long and as thin as a nail. "Pinch the end tightly and hold it away from you," he told me.
    I looked up at my mother for approval. She was tiny with smooth, dark skin. She had long black hair and full, thick lips that stretched thin when she smiled or frowned. She was staring off into space. Her brown eyes darted back and forth, scanning the horizon. Black clouds blew across the sky threatening to block out the setting sun; the golden light glittered in the tree tops and settled on the ground in glowing splotches.
    I looked back at Lenny. "It's fine," he whispered, grinning and nodding his head. He lit the tiny firecracker with a lighter. BOOM. I jumped back. My fingers tingled a little but didn't hurt enough to make me cry. Lenny giggled and snorted. My mother turned toward us, scowling.
    "What the hell are you doing?!" She shouted.
    "Those are called Lady Fingers," Lenny announced in a slow, sweet voice.
My mother glared at him. Lenny towered over her, but when she shot him that look, he froze. Maybe he could see his goofy reflection in her wide eyes or maybe he realized every muscle in her body was clenched; she focused her tension in a stare aimed at him. His smile faded. He wanted to get out of there. He wiggled his toes and fingers, but the rest of him was paralyzed, as if my mother were poking a knife into his soft throat.
    Lenny swallowed. His voice came out hoarse and soft. "It's, It's, fine," he stammered. "Lady fingers never hurt, they only tickle. You should know that, Mary."
    "Sometimes lady fingers sting," she hissed and continued to glare.  Lenny stood still and kept quiet.  A minute passed.  I don't think she blinked.
    "Gotcha!"  She shouted.  Lenny Flinched.  My mother smiled.  Lenny Smiled.  "Jesus, Lenny," She shook her head.  "Don't teach my son about explosives.  He has a hard enough time trying not to burn things up."