Jumping out of childhood
When I was seven years old I saw a guy get stabbed, and as far as formative events go in my life, I feel that it’s up there. There’s little in this world that can rock a seven-year-old out of his secure childhood. Your parents could get divorced or you could lose a pet for the first time, most of which doesn’t teach you just how fleeting and fragile this and your life actually is. Perhaps the most insane part of the incident wasn’t the learning about one's life, but seeing that people were capable of taking life and afterwards just strolling away.
October 15, 1992. It was in the afternoon and my brother and I were playing in the backyard of our babysitter’s house. It wasn’t cold; it never really was in Brooksville, Florida. The trampoline in the back of her house was a treat for being good and finishing what little homework a second grader had. Some cursive practice and a reading exercise from a picture book with large print face that was my class’s book of the week.
The picket fence that held the yard in was only good at blocking the world at eye level, but when we perched ourselves on that trampoline and bounced to the stars we could see everything behind the house. There was a mixture of abandoned buildings splashed in between thriving stores with loud neon signs, advertising a way of forgetting. We didn’t know what they were selling, we just liked the colors. The neon and pastels put off by the signs would entice any child.
My brother and I were sitting, recovering from one of our more enthusiastic and tiring jumps, he facing me, and me facing the lights of inevitability. Two men started pushing each other. One wore a hat on his head and the other bald. They were both in jeans and t-shirts, with shoes dirtied from walking through the gravel parking lot of their favorite establishment. I watched as they bumped chest and looked as though they were whispering something to each other. It was something that I didn’t understand until I was involved with my first fight.
Then there was a loud shriek, like tires squealing and begging to stop as they saw a pensive squirrel. A man, the bald one, hunched over and grasped at his belly like he was trying to understand what the hell was causing this pain. He fell to the ground and hit with a thud that I thought would hurt worse then any type of pain he was feeling before then. His left cheek lay in the gravel, soaking up the dust and making him paler then he already was.
Next the man with the cap straddled the bald man on the ground. In his right hand some jagged piece of steal dripping the burgundy fluid that can only be made by the human body. The man with the cap was screaming and taunting the hunched up man like he was proud of his cowardly act. And then, like he had been stabbed in his Achilles tendon, he limped off, proud of himself. Laying on the ground, and starting to gather a crowd, was the bald man, becoming paler and moving less with each second.
I grabbed my brother and I walked him back into the house as though nothing had happened. He was oblivious to it; his head had been turned and was staring at the dogs playing in the yard. I didn’t react to it. I didn’t know how to. As I sat at the table, drinking a glass of water, I could hear the sirens of an ambulance and what I could only guess was a police officer. I slowly sipped at my water, not trying to finish it too fast. I kept my back turned to the action, as everyone in the house gathered at the sliding doors to see what was happening. I didn’t move. I was too focused on finishing my glass of water.
I didn’t tell my mom. I had no idea at the time why not, but I think that it would have been too much for her to handle. How can one woman apologize for the world? I look back on it now and wonder which would have been more difficult for her to do. Explain what had happen, or why it had?
The man didn’t die. It said so on the local news that night. I don’t know what became of either man. They were two strangers whose encounter took place five hundred feet away from a seven-year-old who had no context to put it in. I never cried about it though. It never seemed real to me. Perhaps it was that glass of water, and never looking back. I guess if you can’t see the aftermath of anything, it becomes really hard to materialize it as real. It was that day though that I learned how truly cruel man could be; how you could cause pain without feeling bad about it. That day I learned about the cruel, and at seven that's far to early to learn such a heavy lesson.
October 15, 1992. It was in the afternoon and my brother and I were playing in the backyard of our babysitter’s house. It wasn’t cold; it never really was in Brooksville, Florida. The trampoline in the back of her house was a treat for being good and finishing what little homework a second grader had. Some cursive practice and a reading exercise from a picture book with large print face that was my class’s book of the week.
The picket fence that held the yard in was only good at blocking the world at eye level, but when we perched ourselves on that trampoline and bounced to the stars we could see everything behind the house. There was a mixture of abandoned buildings splashed in between thriving stores with loud neon signs, advertising a way of forgetting. We didn’t know what they were selling, we just liked the colors. The neon and pastels put off by the signs would entice any child.
My brother and I were sitting, recovering from one of our more enthusiastic and tiring jumps, he facing me, and me facing the lights of inevitability. Two men started pushing each other. One wore a hat on his head and the other bald. They were both in jeans and t-shirts, with shoes dirtied from walking through the gravel parking lot of their favorite establishment. I watched as they bumped chest and looked as though they were whispering something to each other. It was something that I didn’t understand until I was involved with my first fight.
Then there was a loud shriek, like tires squealing and begging to stop as they saw a pensive squirrel. A man, the bald one, hunched over and grasped at his belly like he was trying to understand what the hell was causing this pain. He fell to the ground and hit with a thud that I thought would hurt worse then any type of pain he was feeling before then. His left cheek lay in the gravel, soaking up the dust and making him paler then he already was.
Next the man with the cap straddled the bald man on the ground. In his right hand some jagged piece of steal dripping the burgundy fluid that can only be made by the human body. The man with the cap was screaming and taunting the hunched up man like he was proud of his cowardly act. And then, like he had been stabbed in his Achilles tendon, he limped off, proud of himself. Laying on the ground, and starting to gather a crowd, was the bald man, becoming paler and moving less with each second.
I grabbed my brother and I walked him back into the house as though nothing had happened. He was oblivious to it; his head had been turned and was staring at the dogs playing in the yard. I didn’t react to it. I didn’t know how to. As I sat at the table, drinking a glass of water, I could hear the sirens of an ambulance and what I could only guess was a police officer. I slowly sipped at my water, not trying to finish it too fast. I kept my back turned to the action, as everyone in the house gathered at the sliding doors to see what was happening. I didn’t move. I was too focused on finishing my glass of water.
I didn’t tell my mom. I had no idea at the time why not, but I think that it would have been too much for her to handle. How can one woman apologize for the world? I look back on it now and wonder which would have been more difficult for her to do. Explain what had happen, or why it had?
The man didn’t die. It said so on the local news that night. I don’t know what became of either man. They were two strangers whose encounter took place five hundred feet away from a seven-year-old who had no context to put it in. I never cried about it though. It never seemed real to me. Perhaps it was that glass of water, and never looking back. I guess if you can’t see the aftermath of anything, it becomes really hard to materialize it as real. It was that day though that I learned how truly cruel man could be; how you could cause pain without feeling bad about it. That day I learned about the cruel, and at seven that's far to early to learn such a heavy lesson.
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