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Chapter 1: Left Behind

His America life consisted of walking through the slums of East LA,

eating with the bums from MacArthur Park, a 7 year old boy,

wandering the streets alone, the school bus left him…twice!

The first time he was left, he strolled through a neighborhood of

menaces of society, young hoodlums gave chase, the first grader

began his run, his run for life, his heart in his throat, he thought, “I

will never get home!” The american boy ran as fast as he could, in

a puddle of paint he slid and fell; the hoodlums almost caught him

but he stood and caught his balance, ran again. The miracle

happen as he reached what seemed a ten foot wall, he ran,

scared, but took a leap of faith and jumped so high that he reached

the top of the wall with his hand and pulled his weight over…the

hoodlums stood in amazement as the american boy escaped their

grasp. The running built up and appetite, “I must eat,” he said out

loud. He had never stolen, but knew that he had no money; his

thoughts were on finding home, but felt he couldn't be weak for the

journey he was about to embark in. A local bakery he entered, he

stood in front of the french bread basket, calculating the store

clerks moves; when the clerks back was turn swiftly the boy exited

like a ghost in the mist…that was the best tasting french bread roll

in his life. The journey began around 2:00 PM in the afternoon, the

young american boy found himself at the center of MacArthur Park

four blocks from the apartments he lived in. He was struck by the

world around him, he lost track of time and paces to get there, he

shared donuts with a bum, they had a conversation about the

pigeons and how they ate too much crumbs, which, was the reason

they shit-ed a lot, and on occasion the shit would land of him, “Fuck

you motherfucken birds,” he yelled twice throughout the

conversation as he gave the birds the bird. The only thing the

american boy could remember was the street he lived on, so ask

the bum, and bum lead him to the corner of the street that would

lead him to his home. He followed orders, as the american boy

walked up the four blocks, his memory recollected images and

memories, things took shape, the world had a pattern. He

remembered, then it hit him, he smiled, because he knew his way

home now. On Verendo Street, he turned left, took a few steps,

stopped and looked up; the bum had told that the him that the time

of day was 3:30 PM, and that was the time he usually got home.

He was worried that he’ll be ask why was he late. He yelled,

“Apaaaaaa, Apaaaaaa, soy Yoooooo,” his father looks out the

window, “Mijo, ya llegastes,” he yells back, “Siiiiii,” he answers.

“Ayi te van las llaveeees,” father yells back, as he tosses the keys

down the window so the young boy can open the door to the

apartment complex; a big brown door, heavy, he was tired was

his voyage through the streets of LA, but he pushed the castle's

door as he entered, he was home...safely.

to be continued...