Not Quite Woodstock

Here is my second round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a setting and an object. From that point, you are given 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were comedy, a silo and waterslide.

Not Quite Woodstock

Let’s get the dirty details out in the open from the start. My name is Hibiscus-Fairylight Nowakowski and I live in a barn. As much as I wish I were kidding, this is the running joke known as my life.

Perhaps I could be more accepting of this Bohemian name if my parents were children of Woodstock; if they’d been forever changed by the love, drugs and music that emerged from that small New York town in 1969. I’d even understand if they lived in the Haigh-Ashbury part San Francisco during the hippie movement.

The problem is, my parents were born in 1972 in rural Kansas. They’ve never even been to California or New York. For some reason, they always felt slighted that they missed out on the generation of “make love not war” and by saddling me with this grain-fed, organic name, they could somehow capture a piece of the past. Rather than people looking at me like I know the secret to total tranquility, they look at me like I have three heads while I try to explain my name.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You forgot the hyphen. It is all one name.”

“No, the hyphen is between Hibiscus and Fairylight, not Fairylight and Nowakowski.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It is my name!”

“N-o-w-a-k-o-w-s-k-i.”

Don’t get me wrong, despite these peculiar details, my life is boringly non-remarkable. The barn we live in was converted on my great grandparent’s old farm and my Nana and Poppy live next door in the farmhouse. My dad works in construction and my mother is a nurse. They were high school sweethearts; a real Jack and Diane love story. It is all so disgustingly romantic. Kind of makes me want to barf.

My favorite place on the property is the abandoned grain silo. What once housed crops now plays host to my art studio, my reading hammock and has been transformed into something resembling the Church of Hibiscus-Fairylight. I have yet to find any parishioners, though, other than my fat cat, Jerry.

It was this unwavering love for my sacred silo that made it so hard to stay away from it the week leading up to my sixteenth birthday. I had no idea what my parents had planned, but whatever it was required me to move out anything I might classify as “good” and stay away for an entire seven days. While part of me was excited, I also worried that this meant there was no new car in my future. I mean, isn’t that what every 16-year-old wants?

A day before my birthday, my parents blindfolded me and led me away from the house.

“Isn’t there some quote about never letting a hippie take you to a second location,” I joked with them. “With all of this build up, there better be a car waiting for me.”

“Very cute,” my mother retorted dryly.

I could hear the sound of running water, peaking my curiosity. When at last they removed my blindfold, a water slide stood in front of me, the top of it three-stories high, emerging from an opening in the silo, emptying into our pool below. It was amazing and more than I could have ever imagined.

“No way. No way,” I stammered.

“Try it out,” my dad invited.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I darted up the stairs and climbed on. I sat for a minute admiring my dad’s work. I always knew he was talented, but this was truly some next level shit.

The ride down was fast, fun and nearly flawless. With about four feet left, my thighs rubbed against the fiberglass, slowing my final approach and delaying my splash. Always quick with an answer, my dad returned with a large bottle of hand soap.

Climbing the stairs, my dad explained, “We can add a bit of soap and really get it going.”

Of course he was right. We stayed out there for nearly an hour enjoying my dad’s handiwork before going in for lunch. What came next we may never really know, but we all have a theory. Mine involves a fat and curious cat.

As we ate our grilled cheese, Jerry came to the back door, meowing loudly. I went to let him in, only to discover he was covered in big, fluffy suds.

“Holy, Jerry Garcia,” I managed, looking at my parents curiously before the clarity of understanding swept over me.

I sprinted to the silo, Mom and Dad right behind me, only to find white fluff emerging from every opening. Soapsuds spilled out, coating the ground all around. As it melted into the surrounding dirt, a big muddy mess was left behind. I know I shouldn’t have laughed after all of my dad’s hard work, but it was a sight to see.

The best I can figure is Jerry some how knocked the connecting hose loose, which combined with the uncovered soap, leaving a messy sea of suds. As my dad sprinted through to get to the water valve, he slipped, leaving him coated in a combination of sticky brown mud and crisp white bubbles.

My mom stood there laughing, tears of disbelief running down her cheeks.

“Find something funny?” my dad asked her, throwing some mud in her direction.

Before I knew what was happening, the three of us were slipping, sliding, laughing, crying and creating shenanigans. Jerry sat there, watching all of us as though he had never seen anything quite like us.

As we cleaned up the disaster left behind that evening, I looked over at my parents. My dad with a push broom, my mom, rag in hand, both mud coated from head to toe.

“Guess that car is sounding pretty good right now, huh, guys?”