A man named Hugh Day and his girlfriend Chelsea Vermont, who was twenty years younger than he was, were sitting on a blanket on a hill. About four hundred other people sat on this same hill. The hill slanted downwards and at the bottom there was a stage, and some rows of chairs, completely filled up with people. Hugh Day and Chelsea Vermont had gotten to the concert one and a half hours early so they could find a good spot on the hill. An orchestra would be performing in thirty minutes. Hugh and Chelsea had brought a picnic dinner filled with chips, diet Pepsi, ham and cheese sandwiches, and cantaloupe. “Everyone always packs supper when they come here,” Chelsea had said the day before, so they went to the County Market Superstore with their coupons and bought all the necessary foods.
Chelsea Vermont is a fat girl; country; likes to make crafts. She works at the zoo planting plants to make the animal cages and sidewalks look pretty. She knows all about plants, all the different names, what colors look good together. She shares an ugly town house in a bad neighborhood with Hugh Day, but they make their yard look better than anyone else’s on the whole block. She curls her hair in the morning, making her bangs perfectly round. She is five feet tall and has smirky little lips that she puts pink lipstick on. She wears tight jean pants that taper at the ankles and a flowered shirt. Today it was bit chilly, so she wore a white sweater with a sewn-on picture of a teddy bear on it.
Hugh Day is fifty years old; a man who often dyes his hair, but it always comes out blotchy so it is blatantly obvious. Everyday he feels the top of his head to see if his bald spot has grown larger and then combs his hair nicely over it. Sometimes he forgets to comb his hair in the morning, and his co-workers and friends pretend he’s just having a bad day. Chelsea Vermont doesn’t say anything because she’s afraid she might hurt his feelings. Thankfully, she doesn’t notice his bald spot since she is too short to see it. He is a colorblind man who doesn’t have much style and usually wears miss-matched socks. He wears jeans up high on his waist with a plaid shirt tucked in very tightly. Today he wore his favorite jacket, two different shades of green with his name ‘Hugh Day’ written in cursive above the upper right hand pocket.
It was a nice cool evening; cloudless and clear. “It’s a nice evening, dear,” Chelsea commented.
“I picked the perfect night to come, huh?”
“Sure did honey—not a cloud in the sky.”
“Just look at all these people,” Hugh said, pushing Chelsea’s head off his lap so she could look at all the people.
“It’s a crowd all right.”
“I was smart to order the tickets so long ago, huh?”
“Sure was honey—we even got a discount.” Hugh put pressure on her head so she would put it back down on his lap.
“I’m glad I found out about this in time,” he said, giving a smile to the people on the blanket beside them. It was another couple. “It’s supposed to be wonderful.”
“Don’t ya think it’s about time we started eating?” Chelsea said, lifting her head on her own. “Looks like everyone else is almost finished their picnic.” She looked at him without blinking.
“Well, if you’re hungry dear, go ahead.” She opened the cooler to find a package of cookies with a note inside.
“Now Hugh,” she said, pursing her lips and batting her eyes. “What’s this?”
“I picked up some cookies at the supermarket when you weren’t looking,” he said. He had actually saved them from a meeting at work celebrating the Fourth of July. “I know you like them.”
“Aww Hugh, you didn’t have to do nothin’,” she said, stuffing one of them in her mouth. They had red white and blue sprinkles on them. “Oh! What’s this?” she said surprised, pulling out the note.
“Just a little poem I wrote. I’ll read it to you.” Hugh took it from her hands as she stuffed another cookie into her mouth. He read it very slowly saying:
“The moment you’re born you’re dying.
The clock starts ticking
And the Grim Reaper…
The Grim Reaper
He starts keeping your time
The day you’re born.
He’s like an hourglass
That has been turned over
And the sands of time
Start running out.”
Hugh put down the poem feeling proud and Chelsea gave a little smile. “Now Hugh, that wasn’t a poem,” she said.
“Sure it is honey,” he said, taking a cookie from the bag. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
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