Racing from block to block, I stop into the store to buy me chips and a quarter water, purple or blue or red or, if there’re none left, orange. I run out the store, sitting outside church, across the street. Finishing my meal, I get up to play suicide. You throw a ball against the wall and everyone will try to catch it, and if you don’t catch it, the ball gets thrown at your ass. If you get caught, it’s booties up and we all take a turn throwing the ball at your ass.
Some weekends, taller, cooler, older kids dribble a basketball back and forth throughout the street. We try to take the ball from them and they get to show their skill with handles. My dribble isn’t all that, but my defense isn’t bad.
I’m tired. My parents drive me home, playing church music. Most of the time the music is corny barbershop music, stuff like The Heritage Singers. We stop for McDonald’s and pick up happy meals. I get a toy, something plastic with screws and maybe wheels. We get in the car and ride, ride, ride, stop, and a bunch of squeegee men descend upon the car with squeegees and dirty water. They gets the car dirty with their squeegees and they thrust their hands out for money so they can go buy drugs. We finish our food on the ride home. We walk past the people sitting outside and go in.