Apr 20 2008
In Response to “Samuel”
On a hot summer’s day in New York, the sidewalks are busy. Honking cars fill the streets, with drivers yelling out of their windows. Women do their shopping, pushing carts loaded with food in brown paper bags. Some men are striding purposefully, briefcases in hand, while others sit and read the newspaper on benches underneath the trees. Five school-aged boys step out of a shop, each holding half-empty soda bottles. The shop-keeper follows. “The next time you boys come into my store,” he says, “you better quiet down the first time I tell you.”
“Sure thing, mister,” the tallest says, and they all laugh. They trudge through the streets of the city, talking and drinking and laughing, relishing in the absence of school. They make their way uphill to a bridge to spit at the cars passing below them.
“Say,” says one suddenly. “Let’s have a race.”
“Allright,” the others chorus. “Where to?”
“First one to the river and Twenty-third wins,” he replies. “But here’s the catch—you gotta get there by truck.”
“How’s that a race?” another asks.
“I weren’t finished yet!” the boy complains. “You can’t just hitchhike. You gotta jump onto the trucks. It’s a race ‘cause the first boy to get to the river by hopping from one truck to another is the winner.”
“Hold up,” protests a third boy. “You mean we gotta jump ‘em while they’re moving?”
“Yeah,” the boy says boldly. “That’s not too much for you, is it? I’ve done it before.”
One by one, three boys agree. They feel empowered by their daring. The fourth still hangs back. “Maybe this ain’t such a good idea,” he says. “How about a game of baseball instead?”
The four boys jump on him. “Wassamatter? You aren’t scared, are ya?” “Bet you anything he is, the chicken!” “Just look at him, he looks just like a scared baby!” “Poor widdle baby! Does you want your mommy?”
With a shout of laughter, they swing themselves over the bridge, landing lightly on the top of their first car. Men put down their briefcases and newspapers to watch. Women stare in horror, clutching at their hearts, covering their mouths. “My heavens!” one cries. “Those boys will be killed!”
“Stupid kids,” a man chimes in, then catches sight of the one left behind. “Smart of you not to join in,” he says. “We’ll find their bodies on the streets by 5:00 this evening.”
The boy doesn’t hear him. His ears ring with the laughter of his friends as he watches them make their way across the city, wishing baseball had never been invented.
NB: the boy left behind grew up to become the man who pulled the emergency cord, causing Samuel to fall to his death.
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