Cranbrook part one

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On Cranbrook avenue...

It happened almost every weekend. The boy who lived across the street would run out of his door, down his driveway and onto the sidewalk. Sometimes in his underwear, sometimes in his pajamas. But always with tears streaming down his face and a look of terror in his eyes. He was around 9 just like I was.

His fat fuck of a father would bust out the door shortly after the boy did. Sometimes he had his belt in his hands, sometimes he was drawing it out of his pants like an obese Knight.

I hated the thought of the father as a knight. I dreamt of being a Knight. I drew Knights in my schoolbooks. The Knights I drew rode horses and didn't have piss stained shirts bursting out with years of shitty food turned to layers of fat.

The father never caught him, but always seemed to give a genuine effort.

When I would see it happen, I always did the same thing. I would drop my bike, skateboard or scooter onto our dead lawn and stare across the street at the father with my fists involuntarily clenched. He was a good two feet taller than I stood, and he frightened me. But I wanted him to know that I was watching him, and that someday I would be powerful enough to walk across that street and kill him.

One day while he huffed back to his house, he stopped and he stared back at me He yelled, "I'll kick the shit out of you too." I felt tears well up, but I stood my ground. He made a quick move toward me and I flinched, flicking tears from my cheeks onto the warm sidewalk. I wanted to keep my head down and watch the wet marks slowly disappear, but instead, I looked back up at him. He laughed, turned, and went inside to wait for the boy to return home.

The next time he yelled at me was a mistake. My brother (who one year later would be sent to prison for unrelated reasons) happened to be home. He heard the father threaten me and without a word bolted across the street, knocked the father onto his back, and punched him until he bled. My brother was small, strong and knew how to use his fists.

I remember wanting my brother to kill him, but feeling sick inside my stomach every time Daves fist landed a blow on the fat fuck's face.

Sometimes I thought I should make friends with the boy. I lived there for at least two years, but never did.

And... I never went back to Cranbrook avenue to kill his father.

But I still want to.

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