To The Eccentric Beeper

Mauriah Johnson, Lifestyle Editor


Be-beep! Beee-beep! Beeep!

“Who is that beeping like a crazy person?!”my sister said as your beeps consumed the Walmart parking lot on Dixwell Avenue.


Taking a right turn onto the sunlight’s busiest borderline Hamden street — I twisted my long neck to see the smooth John Travolta look-a-like in a nipple piercing, white tee, with our matching Volkswagen Jetta.


His lusciously thick black hair flipped around to find the continuous offender of this beeping disturbance too — he wasn’t you.

The avenue seemed busier than usual on an early Saturday morning and your patience was running thin. However, it seemed as if you didn’t have any to begin with, wherever you angrily waited in the mystic mist of your beeping chaos.

Beeeeeeeep! Be-bee-beep-beep!

“Okay! Now, who the hell is that?!”my sister’s neck flipped showcasing her fresh buzzcut while her killer smooth acrylic nails dug into the back-head of the leather passenger seat.

Your baby sounding beeps followed us off the plaza. My eyes scanned my rear-view window to find you while my grip on the wheel tightened. I felt you near.


A cobalt-sky, beeping blue truck, danced through the lanes just to be found right behind me — you weren’t what I expected: a triggering familiarity.

“I’m going to say something to him!” my sister said with her pointer finger ready on the window switch.

“No, leave him be, I think he’s my stranger.”

Your dirt brown beard mimicked the wide deprived eyes that couldn’t even seem to blink even when the sun hit just right; you were ticking like a clock.

Awaiting the green light, your barbarian hands could barely hold still your McDonald’s coffee cup as you pressed harshly against your thinly hidden lips, the gulps illuminated your Adam’s apple.

But you weren’t done just yet: you switched over to your cheap white Styrofoam cup — you know, the one you handled with care. Your grip was light with love, your eyes closed and eyebrows raised as your chest sank into your cloth seats — this was the only thing that stopped your beeps.

Who were you before?

What led you to this?

Where are you going?

Why did you give up?

I knew the devouring addiction in your eyes. I just wanted to take it away like my grandmothers’ white sniffing pain. You beeped one last time; you weren’t the one for me to save.

So, I said my goodbyes as your eyes illegally led your wheel to turn left towards the package store down the street. I’ll always remember your beeps even if you can’t remember your last drink.