The Beat On The Street
REMINGTON GRAVES
The humid hot breath of summer huffed and puffed at everybody’s strawed doorstep, and all the little piggies in my pit of a town, stayed put and posed prettily for phony photographs. All together now ( in Beatles choir voices). I usually stay indoors, and when I should the most, my rebellious nature kicks in and drives me to do the opposite of what the drones do and all that drivel. So, I jumped in my new car, of which I hardly ever drive anymore due to my new found affection for the motorcycle in my driveway and drove around to see what kind of drag I could get myself into.
He was a tall, slim Caucasian man wearing cheap, beaten white sneakers and his wife was still young and cute enough to catch a creep’s eye; two sons and a darling daughter—dirty-faced cherubs with fear and uncertainty in their face. Mom and dad argued back and forth while she swung that sweet ass in her tight denim jeans, and he tightened his fists, whiteknuckled and silently whining.
She was losing what little respect she had left for him and he knew it on a subconscious level. There was nothing left to do but make all their lives miserable, he figured. The children began to rub their eyes fighting hunger and tears.
I have never been a family man. I tried my hand at the game of life and it just simply did not take. Regrets? Sure, I’ve had a few—but then again, too few to mention.
”Hey, bud, you wanna get the fuck out the road?” I said glancing at his wife and smiling like a wolf.
”Eat shit, man,” he responded angrily and hesitant.
”Ok, you asked for it, you cunt,” I screamed while parking the car and jumping out determined.
He reeked of uncertainty and so I walked slowly up to him, fist announced a mile away. The dim chap took the bait and hit me hard with a leveling left and stars exploded somewhere between my ears. The asphalt starting cooking the right side of my face as he kicked me three times to the ribs. His wife screamed after him to stop. You know, I never did mind the taste of blood, I remember thinking. After a few more punches, the soon to be X became exhausted and stood up and said, “That’s—that’s…right, mother…fucker.”
As they walked away into the supermarket, I inched to my car and turned on the ignition. With satisfaction, I beheld her arm firmly grip around her husband’s waist proudly. He smiled a bouncing-buffoon-of-a smile and inhaled deeply the stagnant summer air as if it was a Hawaiian gust. His spawn cheered for their triumphant father.
Driving away, wiping the blood from my nose and putting my wayfarers on, I thought to myself, “He is going to pound that pussy like a venerated Viking…She will gaze into his eyes as sweat falls from his brow to wash her doubt away…and as her ample breast bounce in missionary mammary matrimony, the moaning will carry through the house like a loving lullaby as the kids slumber in peace knowing their parents love each other once again and all is right with the world.
So what if I’d didn’t work out for me? So what if I pretended to be a pitiful pugilist? And is it a crime to get off on a good beating from time to time?
The beat on the street…I heard it at birth…and all through my life…in every parking lot…where my mother was missing and my father couldn’t be found.
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