Cherry hill

By Evan Kearney

It was on the 12th of July. I beheld a most queer sight, whilst sitting at the bus stop at the bottom of Cherry Hill. Waves of noise drifted over the burning pavement, an odd thumping, resounding and strong, like the bass in a party SUV from My Super Sweet 16.

            My gazed turned towards the sound as it grew in volume, crashing over the outskirts of sweet suburbia. From atop the crest of Cherry Hill a hazy black figure, obscured by the bright rays of the sun, rolled over the horizon. “But Hark!” I exclaimed. The curious figure, mounted upon a Segway, barreled towards my current residence at speeds most daring for one so precariously perched, nearly a twentieth of one hundred miles per hour.

            I was transfixed by this apparition, in all of its sublime glory. I felt myself envious. I was so rooted upon the sight that I couldn’t make heads or tails of the music pounding in my eardrums, that is until the far off figure’s haze solidified into the frail frame of a wrinkling old woman not ten feet from my bemused face. Her visor said Hot Mama and her vertically striped hot pink, yellow and sky blue tee shirt said, “I don’t give a fuck”. Looped into her belt where a pair of matching black JVC speakers wired in so they hung behind her like truck testicles, no scrotum.

At that moment the pulse of the speaker’s bass slapped me back to reality, and as the only line of the song caught me, so did her gaze. Eclipsed, as it was, by eye doctor prescribed blackout shades, and as she mouthed those final words 2 Chainz’ voice echoed around my head, “I’m different, yeah, I’m different.”