James Dean Face

        An early predawn crisp spring night. Nineteen hundred ninety something. Full moon glaring above gave sufficient natural illumination to the park with a hill. Three of them sat under a weeping willow tree on the wooden park bench. The bench sat aside a blacktop trail. As they looked past the trail, the rest of the park was revealed to them; magically lit, dimly, by the moon. A long spread of grass lead out like a forest meadow to a small risen hill at the eyes extent. The hilltop was protected by trees, but through the trees the kids could see something going on.

        They got up from their resting place to walk towards the hill. At night, the moon gave light, but painted the world in shades of gray, black and tints of green. They came upon the hilltop. Atop the small dirt patch at the height of the hill were three other people. Two guys and one girl. The three of them spoke philosophies together and listened to the short haired bearded guy play the acoustic guitar. The musician's girlfriend sat next to her man and proudly recited her poetry; disturbing lyrics written with true insightful pain.

        The musician and his girlfriend, the poet, had met a friend in the park earlier that night who they sat with now. That was the guy with the bandanna and the tattoo on his arm. He spoke to them of an incredible idea he had that concerned all three of them. They all nodded silently and agreed the idea was genius with acknowledging handshakes; the confident stare in their eyes backed their creative minds.

        "It is a moment, there is a moment," the guy with the bandanna thought as he shook the musician's hand and hugged his female poet friend. They all held a James Dean face at that moment; they would hold it forever. Even if rainy days come, as they have had so often, their James Dean night would hold forever in their minds.