Turning a Corner

The moment I stepped off the streetcar I began doubting why I'd come—the heavy air that had to force its way into the lungs; the stench of piss and struggle; the forgotten, wandering in groups of one. My dad had always called these people the scum of our collective generations—the worthless who refused to contribute, the weak who couldn't pick themselves up even when their lives were depending on it.

Just a few weeks ago—probably two, maybe three, blocks away—my parents and I were walking back to our car after taking in a show at the Orpheum. Turning the corner, one of them bumped into my mom. He was drunk or high, mumbling, "my fault, my bad, my fault." He reached out his hands, cupped, holding a red raisin box that carried his night's profits. In a moment of haze and confusion, my dad pounced. He grabbed this kid—couldn't have been older than me—and slammed him into the gutter, his hair and face drenched in the city's guts. I remember the kid's face as my dad spit on him; I remember how he went into a fetal position, screaming and crying like an animal that had been shot in the kneecaps. My dad grabbed me and mom, forcing us to flee.

The moment was haunting then and is haunting me now. I had to come back here, alone. Why? I'm not really sure. Maybe it was to find that kid and see if he was okay. Maybe it was to spite my circumstance. Maybe it was to see for myself how life reaches this point for people, instead of judging blindly like a coward.

The Plot Thickens: (1) a first encounter, and (2) a box of raisins

Tags: plot_thickens

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Comment by Joanna OReilly Davis on February 14, 2011 at 12:47am: Cool first post! Thing is, I'm not sure what I could do in ten minutes since, once I get started, I don't pay attention to the time. An HOUR goes by in five minutes!

Comment by Jenny P on July 24, 2010 at 1:40pm: Just new to 10. Thanks for the welcome Blake - so I had to look around a bit. For me this piece poignantly illuminates that time when children really question the conditioning and attitudes of their elders. The red raisin box symbolic of the spent dreams of childhood tattered by Life and disappointment, leading to - this poor kid in the street, which the protagonist identifies with in his humanity. I like it a lot.

Comment by alisa rynay haller on July 12, 2010 at 8:56pm: just as wicked the 2nd time around. (chills)....I don't understand real life cruelty, that's why I stick with demons and angels!

Comment by Sal Moreno on July 11, 2010 at 9:08pm: "I remember how he went into a fetal position, screaming and crying..." - That line caught me off-guard and made me pause, for it surfaced memories I'd rather shed. Walking in someone else's shoes is an enlightening experience.

Comment by Jennie Walker on June 9, 2010 at 3:23pm: I interpret this sentence: "Maybe it was to see for myself how life reaches this point for people, instead of judging blindly like a coward." ...as the narrator needing to see for himself how life reaches this point both for (1) his Dad, and (2) the kid. And also in that act of returning to that place, finds out how a bit about how he has reached that point, himself.

Comment by alisa rynay haller on April 23, 2010 at 3:51pm: dammit Blake no matter how many times I cut and paste the prompts they never show up like this!
Fantastic flash by the way.

Comment by Allie on April 5, 2010 at 5:47pm: I don't know what was more shocking: the dad's bizarre reaction or the tiny raisin box that held the guy's "night's profits." Usually I don't like the unexplained (i.e. dad's reaction) but in this case, it is necessary in order to be in the MC's shoes and go back to the scene with him. Interesting that the MC thought his dad a coward instead of an action hero.

Comment by Blake N. Cooper on April 5, 2010 at 8:27am: Thank you, Teresa!

Comment by teresa cortez on April 3, 2010 at 3:21pm: Oh this was painful to read. My #1 cause is for the homeless. You dealt with this subject with such sensitivity and a sage writing voice that carries the trusting reader to just about anywhere. I look forward to reading all your posts. Excellent piece, and one I'll always remember.