Cookie Dough Summer

By Tyler Daswick

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Sometimes, when long Saturday afternoons would drape themselves over Litchfield Park, Eli and I would ride our bikes up to the Bashas grocery store to buy cookie dough. On the way we’d talk and he’d tell me about his problems with Rachel but I hadn’t had a girlfriend yet so I only pretended to understand.

We always parked our bikes on Litchfield Road and I would lock mine even though Eli never locked his and we would walk into the Bashas under the front-door air conditioner.  The blast of wind felt wonderful and sometimes I would close my eyes.

We’d go to the freezer section and grab our package of cookie dough—usually Tollhouse chocolate chip, but sometimes we’d deliberate over it and end up trying peanut butter or the Reese’s Pieces—and we’d write things in the frost on the inside of the freezer door. The same old lady would ring us up every time, and we’d head out the back door so we could look at the DVDs for rent on the way.

Eli would sit down on the parking-lot curb while I bought us vending-machine sodas for a quarter each. They were name-brand sodas but the machine had flavors like cream and strawberry and grape. Cream was the best, and I’d buy two and bring them over and sit down and Eli would hold the gridded dough in both hands and split it down the middle. Twelve squares each, always.

We’d sit and eat and talk and look out at the parking lot. The sun would go down behind the store and the shadow of the building would cover us. We’d talk about girls and movies and music, and what high school might be like, and sometimes we’d talk about serious things, like God or what we wanted. The cookie dough would melt and stick to our hands and we’d have to eat it fast before we made a mess. Then we’d be sick.

The sky was orange by the time we walked our bikes back down the tree-lined street to Eli’s house. I’d say goodbye to him and ride home, and sometimes I would wonder what the next year would be like, when I was in eighth grade and he was in ninth grade. It was a far bike ride to the high school.

I didn’t see Eli much after classes started. Sometimes he would be at football games or out on Litchfield Road with other friends. We never went to Bashas again. I don’t think I’ve had cookie dough since.

Years later, after I had left Litchfield Park, he called me, and I met him at an Arby’s in Phoenix. His hair was short and he told me he had become an atheist. He broke up with Rachel, too, years before. We talked for a couple hours but then he had to leave and we never followed up. I heard he’s in the Navy now and drives a motorcycle. I’m over here.