Hello F(r)iends,
Memories, Meh-moe-rees
One of my most vivid recollections as a child was the day I moved into a rental home in the Bronx. I remember sitting excitedly on the porch in front of our home as I looked with awe at this strange new neighborhood and I remember my difficulty understanding the noise of bullets exploding and penetrating the head of the young black child crossing the street. I remember the blood spraying out, the boy collapsing unto the ground, the bike he held falling next to him and I remember that as I was being dragged inside our home as I watched the boy’s blood flow freely onto the asphalt and catching a glimpse of the shooter–a tall, thin, black kid, ,with a smirk that to this day fills me with bitter hatred–and his friends running away with the kid’s bicycle.
Much later (though possibly only about half-an-hour later) I heard the police and the ambulance sirens. Soon thereafter, I climbed our couch and took a peek out of our windows–for the first time I noticed they had black/rustic metallic bars that prevented entry or escape–and I watched as the ambulance drove away without a siren (though it’s lights were still whirling). Left behind, between two cop cars, were traces of what appeared like chocolate and strawberry goo where the boy had collapsed. Next to the choco-berry fluid was an outline of where the kid fell.
I recall peeking out the window and observing two police officers approach our fence. I watched as they unlatched the gate and walked past our dry rose bushes and moved towards our porch. I recoiled in fear (perhaps it was surprise) and instinctively hid in the crevice between our couch and our shelves. My parents stood frozen until they heard what seemed like a doomsday sound: Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Quickly, another explosion of knocks came at the door and it was followed by the raspy voice of Lucifer.
Los Angeles Police. Please open the door.
Poe-Lee-See-Uh.
Pooh-Where-Ta.
Por Favor.
The Spanish was heavily accented and carried such disdain that a chill ran through me. My parents reached to open the door. A look of worry was smeared across their faces. The door slowly opened and I suddenly realized we had a second door–a blac/rustic metal door that matched our window bars. As my parents stared dumbly into what I was sure was Satan himself, it occurred to me that the door was the gate to hell…
Did yall see what happened to the little black kid? said Satan in his raspy voice. When the police officer got no response besides silence, he said in broken Spanish: Kay paw-sow cone el Knee-No? My parents were silent. Lucifer spoke again, this time with slightly improved Spanish: “El nino, kay paw-sow?”
My father spoke up: “Unos negros mataron ha ese niño. Pero ninguno de nosotros ha visto algo, señor.” Translation: Some blacks killed that kid. But none of us saw something, sir.
I nudged myself out of the crevice near the couch in time to hear the Devil’s heavy breathing as his sole response. At the silence, my father spoke in thick English: “No peek Inglish.”
“I speak Inglish” I blurted out as I nudged between my parents to take a glance at evil incarnate. My father placed his hand over my shoulder perhaps in hopes of preventing me from opening the gate to hell. As he gently squeezed I looked up at the disapproving look on my father’s face and it helped me recall that I didn’t speak English. At least, not when it came to the cops.
Did ya see what happened to that nigger? asked the Devil.
Knee-gurr? I puzzeled. No! De negros tayk da bike. No knee-gurr, look like Bee eMmmm ecXks.
The cops had a laugh. Mumbled to themselves and as they walked away they said: Grah-see-uhs. Fucking Mexicans… My father looked at me and asked what they said. I explained that the cop thanked us for the information and probably thought we said Mexicans did it because he said a bad word and Mexicans. My father asked me to explain to them that it wasn’t Mexicans…
No Mexicans! I yelled. Negros tayk bike! The cops laughed loudly and waved goodbye.
A memorable day…
-Thirst
[story inspired by true events]