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THERE'S A HOLE IN THE FENCE ON WEST 70th THAT LEADS TO KMART
THERE'S A HOLE IN THE FENCE ON WEST 70th THAT LEADS TO KMART
Trash
bags over shoulders. Mom and me walk them to the recycling plant. You
see, my father drinks, and my father drinks. All the streets around
here read no outlet. We are cattle herded and forced to huff it down
Clark where the blurry figures in passing cars point and gawk.
If
you're lucky, in the summer, you can hear the cars laugh at mom and
me – and our bags of trash.
Every
time we pass the laundry mat, I am good to hear the story of the last
time my mother got into a fistfight. Over a drying machine. Beat the
bitch's ass.
Past
Hope, at the intersection with Mom's Family Restaurant, we cross the
street and take 65th down past West Side Metals until we hit Aaromet
Recycling. It is only a handful of change for the bags, but she lets
me get something from the corner store, and neither of us has
anything better to do.
On
the way back, we walk through the Kmart parking lot until we hit the
brown fence that is hidden by overgrown shrubs. Been that way for
decades. There is no point in cutting down the weeds. They just grow
back.
There
is a hole in the fence out there. If you don't mind scraping your
knees against the rocks as you tunnel beneath the sharp edges of the
fence, you can climb the sharp edges of the track ballast, and race
across the train tracks. You'll come to the hole in the fence. It is
behind the fire hydrant and across the street from Lesha's house. Be
careful in the backyard. It's like our backyard. There's poison oak.
No one bothered to destroy it. No one had time to protect us. 'Round
here, you get one warning, and one warning only.
Misty
hung herself on a clothesline in the backyard.
Phillip
broke my arm in the living room.
We
are the only children outside, and the cops do not let us play
kickball in the abandoned parking lot. They closed down Halle Middle
School, and I am forced to bus to school in a different neighborhood.
The only thing anyone ever feeds us is hotdogs, and no one can
understand why I don't want to eat. The only thing anyone ever shows
me is violence, and no one can seem to understand why
there's
a hole in the fence on West 70th Street that is quite the shortcut
if
you need it.
View all episodes
By Mathew SerbackTHERE'S A HOLE IN THE FENCE ON WEST 70th THAT LEADS TO KMART
Trash
bags over shoulders. Mom and me walk them to the recycling plant. You
see, my father drinks, and my father drinks. All the streets around
here read no outlet. We are cattle herded and forced to huff it down
Clark where the blurry figures in passing cars point and gawk.
If
you're lucky, in the summer, you can hear the cars laugh at mom and
me – and our bags of trash.
Every
time we pass the laundry mat, I am good to hear the story of the last
time my mother got into a fistfight. Over a drying machine. Beat the
bitch's ass.
Past
Hope, at the intersection with Mom's Family Restaurant, we cross the
street and take 65th down past West Side Metals until we hit Aaromet
Recycling. It is only a handful of change for the bags, but she lets
me get something from the corner store, and neither of us has
anything better to do.
On
the way back, we walk through the Kmart parking lot until we hit the
brown fence that is hidden by overgrown shrubs. Been that way for
decades. There is no point in cutting down the weeds. They just grow
back.
There
is a hole in the fence out there. If you don't mind scraping your
knees against the rocks as you tunnel beneath the sharp edges of the
fence, you can climb the sharp edges of the track ballast, and race
across the train tracks. You'll come to the hole in the fence. It is
behind the fire hydrant and across the street from Lesha's house. Be
careful in the backyard. It's like our backyard. There's poison oak.
No one bothered to destroy it. No one had time to protect us. 'Round
here, you get one warning, and one warning only.
Misty
hung herself on a clothesline in the backyard.
Phillip
broke my arm in the living room.
We
are the only children outside, and the cops do not let us play
kickball in the abandoned parking lot. They closed down Halle Middle
School, and I am forced to bus to school in a different neighborhood.
The only thing anyone ever feeds us is hotdogs, and no one can
understand why I don't want to eat. The only thing anyone ever shows
me is violence, and no one can seem to understand why
there's
a hole in the fence on West 70th Street that is quite the shortcut
if
you need it.