Born into innocence, a child is drawn to good. Why then do so many of us grow so tragically wrong? Can we ever hope to understand that which shapes the soul? What possesses some to walk the path of darkness while others choose the light? To even begin to understand one must locate the moment back in time where the road forks. The split path where heroes go one way and villains go another.
The Burnt Toast Diner, Alma NY, 1980.
One foot in front of the other he walked with casual purpose pushing through the glass door lined in rusting metal. With every step a rattle cast from his boots, dispersing within the air, each finishing its travels almost directly before its subsequent cohort. His breath was un-phased by the stale, grease filled air that had taken the place of dirt and oxygen held on the other side of the disheveled door. Completely surrounded by sad chipping yellow walls the mans steady but unfocused eyes took in the small diner; dark brown lasers just cool enough to not split everything in their path. Not once did his attention aim singularly, while the other twenty or so people had all taken in his presence. One would think he were alone if not for the young boy in pursuit of the man. He was small in stature with thick somber chestnut hair and nearly identical dark brown eyes that were of obvious decent to the man. Occasionally he would reach his hand out, fingers spread, as if he wished to grab the tattered remains of his fathers flannel, falling just short as if he had rethought the idea, and settled on picking up his pace as to not fall too far behind.
Air is cast from the young boys lungs in a huff when they reach a small table for two, just beyond a divider in the wall. The green T-shirt he wore softened by his shoulders as they relaxed at the chance of rest.
Finally the man turned, acknowledging the boys existence. He furthered his natural hunch; towering over the boy, hand on his shoulder. A soft whisper, seven seconds at most passed by and the man strolled away. Expectations would assume the boy to now sit in the chair at the table that caused him such relief, but instead he stood. Inches from the chair he lingered, hence possessing the empty table. Quickly bored by solitude the boy reached his hand into the deep left pocket of his worn jeans, withdrawing a small red car. Unlike most boys his age he did not run through out the diner, arms propelling in the air, making car noises with his mouth. He stood peculiarly, car in hand, quietly vibrating his cracked lips while rolling the car back and forth along the back of the chair.
Not far from where the boy stood and played, the man sat and spoke with a couple. The woman held her trembling hands in lap, tangled her fingers quickly together to only then untangle and repeat the motion. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun at the crook of her neck, with small auburn strays drooping by the sides of her face. And her face spoke of almost every emotion; her hershey eyes lived wide with debating brows that crunch the face’s center into a deep ‘v’ that looked as though it may be permanent. The slight trembling of her slender upper lip marring an otherwise beautiful smile, somehow looking forced but genuine at the same time. Her spouse sat directly next to her, his hand on her bobbing knee as if he wished to force it down, while his own knee bobbed almost simultaneously with hers.
An abrupt halt in quick conversation and all adults turn their heads to face the boy, still standing in the exact place he was left. Moisture welling up in the woman’s eyes when she first places the boy. They look back to each other, words no longer exchanged only glances, but that seems to be enough. The spouse pulls a stack from his kaki pocket and places it in the outstretched palm of the miscreant man who now proceeds to leave with not even a glance toward the boy whom he entered with.
There will always be a moment where everything changes. The moment when the road bends or splits. When the nature of human shifts. We do what we can to understand these changes. To make sense of destiny’s invisible hand, and ready ourselves for the next change. But regardless of how much we prepare; resist or anticipate the inevitable, we are never truly equipped when it hits.
Just as he swings the door open, bell atop the door ringing from the movement, the boy turns for assurance from he who created him, only to see a hunched back departing just as it had come, detached and alone.
The couple approached the boy with soft, slow steps. The woman bends down, but the boy did not acknowledge the woman standing in front of him, his eyes fixed on the door. She balanced on the balls of her feet, “Hello Brooks” her brows crunch downwards as she speaks, “my name…”, before she can finish or anticipate his move the boy falters from his statue state and bolts for the door. The force he exerted when pushing the door sent the bell crashing back against it. After a few steps upon the dirt and pebble parking lot Brooks halts, his head jerking back and forth, longing to see that tattered flannel or thinning brown hair. Or that old Impala his father loved so much pulling over closer to the door for him to hop in. But the dirt clouding around him made it nearly impossible for him to place any object, near or far. His face and eyes are scrunched now, little particles of dirt attempting to lodge inside the cracks, and his mouth is parted open, upper lip by his gums.
The dust finally settled allots him his vision again. And with this recent return of sight he spots the butt of hi s father’s car. Through the dirt ridden rear window he makes out two silhouettes in front of the car. To the left is definitely his father, but the right one is harder because of a crack causing a large amount of dirt build-up. The closer he got to the car the more he could detect voices screaming. 15 feet away and he began to discern segments of words being exchanged. “you son of a bitch… I…motherfu…can’t believe you…” all came through from a female voice. The boy waited, wanting to hear what his father would say in response, but heard no words. All he heard was a muffled pounding of the car long painful shrieks that put him in a statue state again. He stood frozen as the passenger door clicked open and the female body was shoved out to the ground covered in blood. “MOM!” the young boy screamed in automatic response to the scene of his mother lying but 15 feet in front of him, a slit through her neck that still bled profusely. His feet could still not move. He stood there crying at the top of his lungs, watching the dust cloud behind his ‘‘father’s’’ impala as he drove off into the horizon.
Earth. The planet contains nearly seven billion people, each an individual; unique, different. Some average, some assholes, some special. What is it that makes these differences possible and determines diversity? Collections of memories, experiences, and thoughts that carve out who we are as people? Or is it already predetermined who we shall be, a destiny of sorts? Does time shape people; who will be broken, who will be saved, each moment determining how people will act and where they will go? If so how does anyone become commendable, honorable or good?
The Burnt Toast Diner, Alma NY, 1980.
One foot in front of the other he walked with casual purpose pushing through the glass door lined in rusting metal. With every step a rattle cast from his boots, dispersing within the air, each finishing its travels almost directly before its subsequent cohort. His breath was un-phased by the stale, grease filled air that had taken the place of dirt and oxygen held on the other side of the disheveled door. Completely surrounded by sad chipping yellow walls the mans steady but unfocused eyes took in the small diner; dark brown lasers just cool enough to not split everything in their path. Not once did his attention aim singularly, while the other twenty or so people had all taken in his presence. One would think he were alone if not for the young boy in pursuit of the man. He was small in stature with thick somber chestnut hair and nearly identical dark brown eyes that were of obvious decent to the man. Occasionally he would reach his hand out, fingers spread, as if he wished to grab the tattered remains of his fathers flannel, falling just short as if he had rethought the idea, and settled on picking up his pace as to not fall too far behind.
Air is cast from the young boys lungs in a huff when they reach a small table for two, just beyond a divider in the wall. The green T-shirt he wore softened by his shoulders as they relaxed at the chance of rest.
Finally the man turned, acknowledging the boys existence. He furthered his natural hunch; towering over the boy, hand on his shoulder. A soft whisper, seven seconds at most passed by and the man strolled away. Expectations would assume the boy to now sit in the chair at the table that caused him such relief, but instead he stood. Inches from the chair he lingered, hence possessing the empty table. Quickly bored by solitude the boy reached his hand into the deep left pocket of his worn jeans, withdrawing a small red car. Unlike most boys his age he did not run through out the diner, arms propelling in the air, making car noises with his mouth. He stood peculiarly, car in hand, quietly vibrating his cracked lips while rolling the car back and forth along the back of the chair.
Not far from where the boy stood and played, the man sat and spoke with a couple. The woman held her trembling hands in lap, tangled her fingers quickly together to only then untangle and repeat the motion. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun at the crook of her neck, with small auburn strays drooping by the sides of her face. And her face spoke of almost every emotion; her hershey eyes lived wide with debating brows that crunch the face’s center into a deep ‘v’ that looked as though it may be permanent. The slight trembling of her slender upper lip marring an otherwise beautiful smile, somehow looking forced but genuine at the same time. Her spouse sat directly next to her, his hand on her bobbing knee as if he wished to force it down, while his own knee bobbed almost simultaneously with hers.
An abrupt halt in quick conversation and all adults turn their heads to face the boy, still standing in the exact place he was left. Moisture welling up in the woman’s eyes when she first places the boy. They look back to each other, words no longer exchanged only glances, but that seems to be enough. The spouse pulls a stack from his kaki pocket and places it in the outstretched palm of the miscreant man who now proceeds to leave with not even a glance toward the boy whom he entered with.
There will always be a moment where everything changes. The moment when the road bends or splits. When the nature of human shifts. We do what we can to understand these changes. To make sense of destiny’s invisible hand, and ready ourselves for the next change. But regardless of how much we prepare; resist or anticipate the inevitable, we are never truly equipped when it hits.
Just as he swings the door open, bell atop the door ringing from the movement, the boy turns for assurance from he who created him, only to see a hunched back departing just as it had come, detached and alone.
The couple approached the boy with soft, slow steps. The woman bends down, but the boy did not acknowledge the woman standing in front of him, his eyes fixed on the door. She balanced on the balls of her feet, “Hello Brooks” her brows crunch downwards as she speaks, “my name…”, before she can finish or anticipate his move the boy falters from his statue state and bolts for the door. The force he exerted when pushing the door sent the bell crashing back against it. After a few steps upon the dirt and pebble parking lot Brooks halts, his head jerking back and forth, longing to see that tattered flannel or thinning brown hair. Or that old Impala his father loved so much pulling over closer to the door for him to hop in. But the dirt clouding around him made it nearly impossible for him to place any object, near or far. His face and eyes are scrunched now, little particles of dirt attempting to lodge inside the cracks, and his mouth is parted open, upper lip by his gums.
The dust finally settled allots him his vision again. And with this recent return of sight he spots the butt of hi s father’s car. Through the dirt ridden rear window he makes out two silhouettes in front of the car. To the left is definitely his father, but the right one is harder because of a crack causing a large amount of dirt build-up. The closer he got to the car the more he could detect voices screaming. 15 feet away and he began to discern segments of words being exchanged. “you son of a bitch… I…motherfu…can’t believe you…” all came through from a female voice. The boy waited, wanting to hear what his father would say in response, but heard no words. All he heard was a muffled pounding of the car long painful shrieks that put him in a statue state again. He stood frozen as the passenger door clicked open and the female body was shoved out to the ground covered in blood. “MOM!” the young boy screamed in automatic response to the scene of his mother lying but 15 feet in front of him, a slit through her neck that still bled profusely. His feet could still not move. He stood there crying at the top of his lungs, watching the dust cloud behind his ‘‘father’s’’ impala as he drove off into the horizon.
Earth. The planet contains nearly seven billion people, each an individual; unique, different. Some average, some assholes, some special. What is it that makes these differences possible and determines diversity? Collections of memories, experiences, and thoughts that carve out who we are as people? Or is it already predetermined who we shall be, a destiny of sorts? Does time shape people; who will be broken, who will be saved, each moment determining how people will act and where they will go? If so how does anyone become commendable, honorable or good?