It’s always been the same here, for what seems like forever, and it's been here that long, too. Freedom Blvd. Freedom my ass, more like a rat trap. All sides surrounded by a slum lord's wet dream, endless buildings stuffed full of hopeless people, living for the fruits of hopeless dreams, with nowhere to turn but in circles. Living out their lives in an endless maze of sun baked asphalt. they told me, "don’t settle here, man, you’ll never get out alive.” I thought they were joking… Turns out the joke was on me. Now I spend my days working down at the docks, breaking my back, toiling for a thankless wage. And I spend my evenings up here on the fire escape slash balcony of the luxurious hotel Belvedere, throwing back cold Corona’s, dinning on Cheetos and stale beer nuts, watching as life unfolds itself, slowly baking in the afternoon sun.
She came out when the clouds rolled in, gliding through the fresh falling raindrops like an African gazelle, gracefully eluding a lumbering lummox of a predator. Arms stretched out, open wide as if, thankfully, she was trying to hug God almighty himself. Her white wet tee shirt clinging to perfect bra-less skin, long jet black hair all wet and shiny, looking like she just stepped off of a movie screen, Planet Hollywood come to life, and it's the jealous boyfriend to the rescue, covering her young perfect wet body with a blanket, just before he slips and falls on his ass in the middle of the rain soaked street. With a whole plethora of neighborhood children all simultaneously laughing their asses off. All in his honor. Maybe he should have just let her dance.
And the rain keeps falling down, small droplets bouncing off the scalding pavement, forming into small puddles and puddles into ponds. As curious, borderline angry, mothers yell from open kitchen windows for Junior to get his ass home to wash up for dinner. And now as the rain slows to a slow drizzle, the sun sets on another day here on Freedom Blvd, neighborhood kids hurry home promising each other, next time, yeah the next time we play cowboys and Indians YOU get to be Col. Custard. And somewhere in the distance a window breaks, an alarm goes off, and sirens echo down an empty street, and you just have to smile to yourself, because you just know that somebody is going to get busted. Because someone always does. And now, the Corona’s are all but gone, the Cheetos bag is empty, and the beer nuts are still stale. And as the curtain slowly drops, the shows over, and it's time for me to call it a night here on Freedom Blvd.
~Scratch A.B.T. copyright © 2008~
Sometimes the tune is dark and heavy, sometimes the lyrics are depressing, but the rhythm of home (even on Freedom Blvd.) is always life-affirming. "The beat goes on, " as they say.
ReplyDeleteI think I remember reading this at some point on another forum. You are such a gifted writer. Have you ever thought about writing a book or publishing all your writings? Or maybe you have and if you have, I am going to buy the book!
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