Thursday, May 25, 2017
Somethin' Different | Short Stories
Hello,
For those who aren't aware, I'm working towards my bachelors degree in Literature and Writing. Finishing up my spring semester means tucking away all of the essays, poems, and stories I've produced, rather than taking tests or giving presentations. One piece of advice my creative writing professor gave us on our last session with him is to share our work, and not shy away from letting others read and enjoy it. In light of his wisdom, I've decided to do something a little different on my blog and post two of my stories that were a part of my final portfolio for creative writing. This is the same story from two different perspectives, a mother and her son. Enjoy!
The
Queen of the Dump
July in Detroit reminded me of a
visit to the dump with my grandfather. Back on one of the hottest days of 1975,
he decided it would be the ideal time to rummage through the garbage and look
for what he used to call “dirty gems.” To make those days seem less awful, he
used to court me ‘The Queen of the Dump.’ All we walked away with that day was
a broken bike he swore he would fix up for me.
Today, as Jimmy and I walk down Mack
Ave., the pungent smell of hot trash still fills my head. I thought back to the
days of my childhood, that old broken bike, and the times when grandfather made
a dull world seem colorful. The smell of trash is all too nostalgic for me. In
the midst of my daydream, I looked down to notice that my son’s hand was
missing from mine. Immediately, there was a dulled buzz in my ears and my body
broke into a cold sweat. Mack and Helen was no Hamptons; in this neighborhood
the bums would trade the skin on their back for a little bit of crystal. Only
someone who was seasoned in drug abuse could know the darkness of the area,
quietly hidden behind liquor stores and a well maintained park. As I looked
over my shoulder, I noticed his small frame kneeling in the gutter. The muscles
in my body relaxed slightly.
“What’d you find baby?” I rubbed his head
and got down to his level only to be met with a smell that couldn’t be
forgotten: death.
“It’s a pup, mom. Must’ve gotten hit by a
car or somethin’.” Jimmy reached out his hands to touch it and I instantly
swatted at them. The hot sun made the carcass swell to twice its size. I could
feel bile bubbling up my throat. Jimmy looked at me with confusion. He had just
turned eight and, despite his intelligence, did not fully grasp the concept of
death.
When my grandfather died, I promised
myself I would never forgive God for taking him. Blew all my money on meth and
could barely afford food, let alone birth control. When I got pregnant, Jimmy’s
daddy told me to abort it or he would leave me. I walked away from him and never
looked back -- got myself out of drugs and had a beautiful boy who reminds me
of grandpa every day. A dirty gem, he would’ve called him.
“Let’s go baby. I think I hear the ice
cream truck.” Jimmy looks up at me with my grandfather’s eyes. Those eyes were
the light at the end of the tunnel. I squeeze his hand a little tighter.
“Momma, can we get a pup someday?”
“Sure baby,” I say and chuckle, “Only if
he doesn’t look like that one.”
There’s this park down the street
from my house with one of those slides that twirled instead of going straight.
Mom says it’s not in the good area, but takes me anyways cause she doesn’t want
to hear me whine. She also told me that since I was a good boy and got star
student of my class, I might even get an ice cream.
I usually like to go to the park
barefoot. Momma says that today the sidewalk is so hot that you could cook an
egg on it. I ask her if we can try it later and she tells me, “sure baby.”
While momma is holding my hand walking me to the park, I notice a little pup in
the gutter. I tug my hand away from hers and she keeps on walking. Momma likes
to daydream.
The pup has worms crawling out of
its nose. I know that it’s dead because it’s not even panting. Momma comes up
behind me and ruffles my hair. She asks me, “What’s that?” and then kneels down
to look at the pup with me. I can tell that she thinks it’s kind of gross cause
she wrinkles her nose up, but I feel like a detective.
“It’s a pup mom,” I say to her as
she wrinkles her nose all funny, “Must’ve gotten hit by a car or abandoned in
the middle of the night.” CSI taught me that when something dies, it gets rigor
mortis and its body starts to get real stiff. But the pup still looks so
fluffy, there’s no way it could actually be hard. I reach out to touch it and
mom slaps my hands away. She probably doesn’t want me to catch its germs.
Momma grabs my hand and we start to
walk away. I look back behind me one more time; I decide to call him ‘Gutter
Pup.’ We could call him Gutter for short. All my school friends have stray cats
for pets because they’re free and their food is cheaper, a dog is better cause
it can play ball with me like a Pop might. Momma tells me stories about my dad
and that he had to go away to live a better life. Sometimes I ask her why he
didn’t take us and she just tells me that its better this way. I trust my
momma, but I also know that there’s probably more that happened. She’ll tell me
when she thinks I’m ready.
“Momma,” I say, “can we get a pup some day?”
She looks down at me and smiles real big. I hear the chime of the ice cream
truck in the distance and walk ahead of momma.
“Sure baby,” she laughs, “Only if he
looks like that one.”
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