machine

The Saturday Girl

by jmlocke

Every June, once the last of the kids have been counted into minivans and driven off to the sleepover, Maple Glen throws a party for the grown-ups. Charcoal smoke, cold beer, the same argument about brisket, classic rock on the speaker. And out on the bandstand lawn, where it's stood longer than anyone can remember, the Belle wakes up. No one knows who put it there. No one's read the plaque in years. But everyone knows how the afternoon goes: it picks two women from the crowd, strips them, strings them up in the June sun, and puts them to use — itself first, then two men it picks the same way, then itself again — until about an hour past sunset, while the party keeps its chairs turned and its plates full. This year it takes the mom who's babysat half the neighborhood's kids, and a girl who grew up a few streets over. Nobody does anything. It's the block party. Everyone has such a nice time. Come for the brisket, stay for the trussed neighbors.