Cracks in the Sidewalk
Chapter 1
He finishes his beer, throws it in the garbage, and walks to the refrigerator to grab another one. He runs a pot of water through the coffee machine to heat it up, and makes a cup of ramen. It's going to be a long night for our desperate hero. A tear falls down his cheek, for the first time in months. He doesn't cry much anymore, and when he does, it is always alone, in the dark, when he's drunk himself into a stupor, and there's no one around to see it or wipe it away. His noodles are ready. He wolfs down a few forkfuls, and continues typing.
I grew up in Brooklyn, or, to be more specific, on East 71st street, between Avenues U and V. Or maybe it was East 70th street…whatever. The important part here is the mark that growing up in Brooklyn left on me. I was there up until the end of second grade, but sometimes, that’s all that it takes to scar someone forever. I learned a few lessons in my short time there, lessons that have stuck with me since then and I often fear will stick with me for the rest of my life. These lessons are: a) respect the social hierarchy, b) nobody likes a wuss, c) fight for what you want, and d) life is cruel. Each, I learned the hard way.
When I was growing up, the WWF (now known as the WWE) was at its utmost peak. Everyone had their favorite wrestler, and the kids who liked each one tended to clique together on the playground. As cliche as it sounds, it happened, and the cliques started as much drama between each other as the wrestlers “did” on the show. However, there were two differences: 1-these kids took it seriously, and 2-the violence was real. I got into a conflict with one of the “popular kids”. To this day, I can’t remember what the argument was about. What I do remember, however, is being grabbed and thrown backwards against a wall. The kid, whose name is Robert, grabs my head and slams it into the wall behind me. I told the teachers I tripped and fell, and that’s why my head was cut. My parents have no idea. To this day, I have never worked up the courage to tell them.
I had two close-ish friends when we lived there, let’s call them Andy and Mike. Mike lived around the corner from me. In Brooklyn, around the corner meant LITERALLY around the corner…4 houses down. Mike was always a bigger kid, tall, not fat, very in-shape. You know, the kind of kid everyone picks first for kickball. I probably have him to thank for my life while I was there. Just having a big friend was enough to keep the bullies off your back, but only while he was around. Then, at the start of second grade, he moved. Abandoned me for the last year before I would move to NJ. Without him, the bullying got worse, I couldn’t avoid it.
There was nothing I could do. This is when I learned how cruel life is, and how cruel some people could be. This is when I began to hate myself. Their constant bullying and put-downs got to me, and I started to believe them.
I grew up in Brooklyn, or, to be more specific, on East 71st street, between Avenues U and V. Or maybe it was East 70th street…whatever. The important part here is the mark that growing up in Brooklyn left on me. I was there up until the end of second grade, but sometimes, that’s all that it takes to scar someone forever. I learned a few lessons in my short time there, lessons that have stuck with me since then and I often fear will stick with me for the rest of my life. These lessons are: a) respect the social hierarchy, b) nobody likes a wuss, c) fight for what you want, and d) life is cruel. Each, I learned the hard way.
When I was growing up, the WWF (now known as the WWE) was at its utmost peak. Everyone had their favorite wrestler, and the kids who liked each one tended to clique together on the playground. As cliche as it sounds, it happened, and the cliques started as much drama between each other as the wrestlers “did” on the show. However, there were two differences: 1-these kids took it seriously, and 2-the violence was real. I got into a conflict with one of the “popular kids”. To this day, I can’t remember what the argument was about. What I do remember, however, is being grabbed and thrown backwards against a wall. The kid, whose name is Robert, grabs my head and slams it into the wall behind me. I told the teachers I tripped and fell, and that’s why my head was cut. My parents have no idea. To this day, I have never worked up the courage to tell them.
I had two close-ish friends when we lived there, let’s call them Andy and Mike. Mike lived around the corner from me. In Brooklyn, around the corner meant LITERALLY around the corner…4 houses down. Mike was always a bigger kid, tall, not fat, very in-shape. You know, the kind of kid everyone picks first for kickball. I probably have him to thank for my life while I was there. Just having a big friend was enough to keep the bullies off your back, but only while he was around. Then, at the start of second grade, he moved. Abandoned me for the last year before I would move to NJ. Without him, the bullying got worse, I couldn’t avoid it.
There was nothing I could do. This is when I learned how cruel life is, and how cruel some people could be. This is when I began to hate myself. Their constant bullying and put-downs got to me, and I started to believe them.