The Tin Roof

We were up on the rooftops playing what I wanted to believe was baseball, but it was really more like stick ball. No one had a real bat or even a baseball. We had whatever we found in the neighborhood, which was evidently a stick, and of course, a ball. That was a luxury, an actual bouncing ball and not some, well, rock. It worked out great. It was beige and hollow so no matter how hard you hit it, it wouldn’t go that far. Ideal given where we were playing.

All of us were poor. We lived here the slums. And for fun, after supper, we’d sneak away from our parents, climbed our roofs and played baseball.

Our homes were close together, each roof separated by a foot or two. It was dangerous enough for us to fall through. But we we didn’t care. The height was nothing. We were more scared of getting hurt by the cheap aluminum ridged sheets or the splintering plywood that was our rooftops. But we played this many times before. Every step and every jump was memorized. That was why we started where we did, from our homes, every time. Whoever had the ball last was the pitcher and whoever had a stick was the batter. The rules were simple.

I had a stick. I climbed up from my window. It was easier that way. The frame acted as a ladder for me. I was small. Young. Nimble. Like a monkey. I reached out and grabbed the edge of the roof. I swung out and pulled myself up. I squatted on my tin roof. My flip flops pressed a bump making the metal pop. I was anxious.

The sun stung my eyes as they adjusted from the darkness below. I waited for all the silhouettes to rise. One person at a time rose up from the uneven, patch worked, baseball field. Most were close to me. They were all my friends. I didn’t know the ones off in the distant too well. We only knew each other through this game. And our only interaction was when I hit the ball to them. I couldn’t even make out their faces. The sun would warp their figures making them look like a dark blurry orange glob that only had limbs when it waved or caught the ball. And that would rarely happen since I couldn’t hit the ball that far.

When the field was full, I rose and got into my stance. I held my stick with my hands against my right shoulder, pivoting till I felt solid. I bobbed my bat and yelled.

“Let’s play!”

I saw the the windup.

I braced and anticipated.

I never knew why we never lost the ball.

Prescriptions – 4

I didn’t dream. I haven’t in some time. It’s just some haze. Some drift. A lapse in time. And it’s not that I forgot my dreams, because you usually wake up remember bits of it. No. I didn’t have anything in my mind. One second I’m lying down, next I’m opening my eyes. Helen’s faded blue shirt right in my face. I’d say it’s losing its blueness to gray. But that didn’t matter. Again, my point was made. She was sleeping with her back to me.

I can’t believe all the laughs are gone.

“Are you ready to go?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” I wasn’t surprised. “But only if you are.”

She laid still.

The sun wasn’t up yet. But the amber glow was starting to burn the violet night. This used to be the best part of Los Angeles. The cool quiet of the city, before the sun’s rays sparked life around town. Filling the city with noise and activity. Knowing that it wouldn’t happen took the nostalgia away.

“Where will we go?” I asked quietly, a bit to myself, but I hoped she’d answer.

“There’s a place up north,” she still didn’t move. Her voice still quiet as she spoke from her sleep. “We are going there.”

“Why?”

“It’s a place for people like us. They are all gathering there.”

I waited.

“To live,” she finished and pushed herself up and stretched.

I knew that was it. No more explanations. I had a ton of questions, but I refrained. She was the smart one. She probably figured this was the right thing to do. I’d just follow along. As usual. Doing my best not to be annoying. Which I think I did no matter what.