It was a grey day outside. Kind of cold, there might
be snow. A thin young man sat at his kitchen table looking
outside. Across the yard, past the vanilla crested compost
pile full of the fall, an ugly house released  two soft
clouds of smoke. Or more properly, the cloud that came from
the metal chimney was smoke, the other came from a small
laundry vent. It was not smoke, but a wet, heated
cloud that carried the lint from people's pocket's and the
smell of TV teddy bears.
     Lawrence remembered the smell well, it was one of those
childhood memories. During snow ball battles when to go
inside to warm your hands would seem cowardly, and mother
would naturally complain that her house was not a revolving
door, a vent, as such, was what a little boy needed. Images
of old friends huddled about some stranger's vent with their
red tingly hands outstretched came to Lawrence's mind. As
did the conversations concerning who on the enemies team had
the longest throw and who was using slush balls.
     He always seemed to be struck by such memories, by such
observations. Lawrence didn't know why, and he didn't think
that other people were so prone to these musings. He
sometimes didn't mind, and these thoughts were certainly
comfortable enough. But they weren't always so comfortable.
     With a quick decision Lawrence decided to grab his coat
and head towards the puff of memory. Often he suspected some
people thought he was strange when he did things like this.
It's certainly not criminal to stick one's hands under a
laundry vent, but how many other people have done it?
Fortunately this side of the house had only three windows,
two bedroom windows and a small basement window. Lawrence
saw a light in the basement window but he doubted people
actually looked out it often. The window was used more as a
shelf for junk than a source of illumination.
     Lawrence sat on the ground and held his hands under the
strong current of warm wind. They never sat in the old
days, they crouched the comfortable crouch of children.
Lawrence had seen children sit comfortably for an hour with
their bottom resting on their heels, their head resting on
their knees, and their arms hugging their shins.
     Since he was sitting, his hand accidentally directed the 
flow of the air directly towards his face and up his nose. 
A sense of dizziness enveloped Lawrence. He directed the air 
to the left and wondered why air blown right up the nose can 
cause a minor wooziness. It wasn't only laundry vents that did
this. Lawrence remembers summer nights with his face an
inch from the screen of a large box fan. Talking into a fan
very close gives one an almost Zilon -- from Battle Star
Galatica -- like voice; but, if you were not careful a gust of
air would rush up your nose and blow the thoughts in your
head about.
     In the midst of this remembrance some mechanism gave an
official click an flow of warm air ceased. Lawrence was about 
to leave when he heard the muffled voice.
     "Don't touch my book." said a little boy.
     "Why?" asked the voice of a little girl.
     Lawrence thought these voices must belong to the
children that play within the view of his kitchen window.
     "Because it's precious," the little boy said with a
flourish on the word precious. Lawrence grinned. It always
seems that older siblings wish to give authority to their
words by using words of the adult domain. The little boy
probably is very proud of his accomplishment. Not that the
little girl did not know the word. Lawrence thought she
did, on summer days he could see her sitting alone on her step
with a book on her lap. With his binoculars he could
glimpse titles sometimes. One day Lawrence saw that she was
reading the "Never Ending Story", he had longed to go and talk to
her about the book, a childhood favorite.
     "Well, I lent you some of my books." she said.
     "So?  And I'm still reading this book."
     "But you aren't now. You're fixing your puzzle."
     "That you broke," the boy said hotly. Lawrence
chuckled to himself, so that's why the boy was being so
cross.
     "Well, I didn't mean to, I thought I might be able to
do it. And mom said not to be selfish."  The boy tested
this challenge with silence.
     "Well, I'm going to tell mom you're being selfish."
The girl threatened. A short silence, then Lawrence could
hear the faintest sound of tiny steps through the vent, the
drier door must be hanging open for him to hear so well.
     Lawrence wasn't going to stay, it wouldn't seem right
for their mother to find a grown man outside their house
listening through the laundry vent. Though, Lawrence
doubted that the little girl would actually get her mother.
He remembered the threat from his childhood, the pompous
steps, and then the wait. Had the girl merely turned the
corner waiting for her brother to call out for her to come
back, or had she actually gone to her mother?
     Lawrence turned back towards his house in the falling
snow, and made himself a cup of tea when he returned. He
sat in his chair in the kitchen and watched the outside
world. From the door of the house in the back, the mother
held open the screen door and let the two bundled children
tumble towards the yard. At first the two children went
their own ways in the white land, but through a few poorly
aimed exchanges of snowballs it seemed they had agreed to do
something more constructive: building a snowman together.
     At the side of the house the puff of smoke appeared by
the laundry vent once again. Lawrence didn't know whether
the little girl did fulfill her threat, or perhaps the
mother had sent the bickering children into the snow so she
could start the next load of laundry in the basement without
each child complaining of the other child's injustices.
     Soon, a small lopsided snowman took shape in a green
circle. 
     After warming their hands under the laundry vent the
children had set off from their yard in search of other
adventures and friends in the new snow.
     Lawrence sat and let his memories fall upon, burying him
under a blanket of snow. 

    

___

Joseph M. Reagle Jr. (I expect this was written sometime between 1988-1992).