His Secret Is Safe
Kids have to go in and out on hot days breaching that questionable vapor/heat lock that is a front door, and I don't blame Raticia for opening the freezer door and asking Mandy vague questions about melted ice while that cool air tickles her face, and Kizzie's youngest, Lil' Corey, howling his discontent, peeing on himself, drooling, and generally exhibiting all that normal toddler behaviour doesn't seem to weigh that much, but stepping out on the front porch to test the theory is it possibly cooler outside, and seeing that speedy spin of the electric meter (the big window unit works ok if you sit right in front of it), and realizing that it is about equal, that heavy heavy density of heat inside, and outside, just seems plain criminal.
The three lil' girlz all have bowls of cereal, happily yet grumpily clustered around that ubiquitous Capn' Cruch Computer game. It's hot. And we are grumpy, all of us. I scare myself with my heat n' the hood inspired fantasies of evil behavior, and so when I am alerted by Erica that Shentrell just shot her the finger I am not too overwhelmed by the audacity.
"That means a bad word," Raticia said.
"It's the f word," Erica said.
"Tell her to quit messin' wit me and I won't do it," Shentrell said.
I call Shentrell into my work station, "closer, closer," I have to coax, she's ready to be hit, "closer," I say, "you know I ain't gonna hit you," I'm saying impatiently almost angrily now. Erica looms close to be witness to the dressing down. "Go away," I order, and she does.
"Shentrell, you are a pretty girl and when you do that finger it makes you ugly. Don't be ugly Shentrell, don't be common, don't be like everyone else you see, be different Shentrell, be different." I can't think of anything else to say so I puncuate my simplicity with repitition, "be different Shentrell."
Shentrell seems ready for more of my quietly polite abuse, so different from the maniac she witnessed screaming at Shelton last week (a screaming inspired by Shelton hitting Shentrell), but I don't have anymore time for her, I have to get back to my writing, which doesn't exist without her, but she doesn't know that, and so my secret is safe, for now.
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Kids have to go in and out on hot days breaching that questionable vapor/heat lock that is a front door, and I don't blame Raticia for opening the freezer door and asking Mandy vague questions about melted ice while that cool air tickles her face, and Kizzie's youngest, Lil' Corey, howling his discontent, peeing on himself, drooling, and generally exhibiting all that normal toddler behaviour doesn't seem to weigh that much, but stepping out on the front porch to test the theory is it possibly cooler outside, and seeing that speedy spin of the electric meter (the big window unit works ok if you sit right in front of it), and realizing that it is about equal, that heavy heavy density of heat inside, and outside, just seems plain criminal.
The three lil' girlz all have bowls of cereal, happily yet grumpily clustered around that ubiquitous Capn' Cruch Computer game. It's hot. And we are grumpy, all of us. I scare myself with my heat n' the hood inspired fantasies of evil behavior, and so when I am alerted by Erica that Shentrell just shot her the finger I am not too overwhelmed by the audacity.
"That means a bad word," Raticia said.
"It's the f word," Erica said.
"Tell her to quit messin' wit me and I won't do it," Shentrell said.
I call Shentrell into my work station, "closer, closer," I have to coax, she's ready to be hit, "closer," I say, "you know I ain't gonna hit you," I'm saying impatiently almost angrily now. Erica looms close to be witness to the dressing down. "Go away," I order, and she does.
"Shentrell, you are a pretty girl and when you do that finger it makes you ugly. Don't be ugly Shentrell, don't be common, don't be like everyone else you see, be different Shentrell, be different." I can't think of anything else to say so I puncuate my simplicity with repitition, "be different Shentrell."
Shentrell seems ready for more of my quietly polite abuse, so different from the maniac she witnessed screaming at Shelton last week (a screaming inspired by Shelton hitting Shentrell), but I don't have anymore time for her, I have to get back to my writing, which doesn't exist without her, but she doesn't know that, and so my secret is safe, for now.
- jimlouis 7-23-2000 1:32 am