The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Twenty-seventh and Madison. To anyone, the street sounds like heaven, where little old ladies sit on their stoops and watch the children run after their golden retrievers. Where mothers wear aprons and tight ponytails as they sit hot apple pies on the windowsill to cool. Where fathers come home after a nine-to-six job at their cooperations to eat dinner with the family. Where teenagers worst fear is having to repeat a pair of jeans.
But once you see it, you know that is the polar opposite. Little old ladies are shot while they sit on their stoops. Children are running from danger, from adults who wildly point guns to shoot. Mothers sit in their house, bitting their nails down to nubs because they have no clue if someone will run up in their house for anything from jewelry to their lives. Where fathers sit in jail cells, calling and speaking to their children through five-inch glass. Where teenagers worst fear is the loss of their lives.
I have never seen anything other than the latter. I've been shot at, jumped, and robbed and I am only seventeen. But it is all a part of the life, kind of like it is in the fine print of the contract I signed when I was born into that area. I am no different than the other guy, no father, single mother, little siblings, forced to be the man of the house. It is a label- every guy like me that dies on this street has that same tag on his toe.
"Whoo, look at that one," said Aran, one of my closest friends. His eyes followed a good looking girl that walked past. She looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes at him.
"Bro, you couldn't get a girl even if she gave herself to you." I was laughing, but there was truth in my words. Aran just didn't have the right skills to get the girls.
"Whatever, but at least I got a girl," he replied. "I ain't chasin' after those snowbunnies that don't look twice at a guy like you or me."
I laughed. "Even then, I'd still get her."
We were leaning up against the wall Roberto's Market, a convenience store that had been around since my mom was a kid. Roberto, the owner, was more of a father than my real father, who wound up in jail. He is that guy, the one guy, that truly understands what it is like to scrape by. He gives money to those who can't afford groceries, and food to the homeless people who shiver on the park benches at night. He even opened up his basement one winter for them to sleep in.
My mother, brother, and I were in the bunch that slept in his basement.
"No you wouldn't," said Aran. "We all know they would leave you the minute they found out that you don't drive a Bentley, a Caddie, or some other expensive car."
I shook my head. "But, I will, pretty soon. When I get my scholarship, get me a job-"
"Crazy talk," He interjected. "How many of us make it out of the 'hood? None, Zip, Nada, Zilch. They gonna look right past you when it is time to pass out that free money."
I shook my head, dismissing the subject.
It was always like this- feeling like you can't make it simply because of the amount of money you have, or your skin color, or the fact you depend on the government to eat and sleep in a warm place. It goes along with the quota- no one can make it out, so why try?
Aran pulled out a cigarette and reached for his lighter. "And I can tell you goin' to that hell-hole to learn 'cause you got on that bag."
I slipped my hand into the strap of my bag. "Yeah, yeah, I am."
He shook his head. "Whatever, man. Striving after nothing. You ain't gonna make it. You just another Latino punk from the 'hood." He paused and took a drag from his cigarette. "Go'on, you don't want to be late, Schoolboy."
Slowly, I began to walk toward my motorcycle.
Shame is put on anyone that wants to make it around here. Anyone with dreams and hopes and aspirations. I can't want to be anything, because of my nationality. And guys like Aran, guys who have years of experience on the streets, put down anyone who thinks they can make it. And if by chance they do make it, they treat you like you owe them, like they made you or something. Its unfair, this life. I wanted more.
But, as long as I live here, it doesn't look like I will ever get it.
The motorcycle revved under me and I was off, headed to school like a good ole, schoolboy.