A long time ago I was gonna write a story. Not really a story, more like an autobiography. No, I don’t think that I have led such an interesting life that everyone should be clamoring to read about me. But in my 30 years I have somehow managed to cram in a lot of strange shit. My story was gonna start off with a certain incident in particular.
When I was about 7 years old my parents had split up for a couple of weeks. I guess one night my pa went a little too far and my mother had enough of it. I woke up thinking I was late for Grandmama’s only to be welcomed to a house with almost everything in the house packed. I asked my mother what was wrong and she pointed to this dent in the wall. Apparently a lotion bottle had missed its target and hit the wall. I can guarantee you that if it had hit its target someone would have been in jail and someone would’ve missed work.
So with everything packed but my fish tank, a couple of mattresses on the floor, and a table we were off. To where? A shithole. That’s the best way I can describe the place. Yes, we stayed with someone. It was someone I had no love for and couldn’t stand to look at. I wont get into who the person was here. But believe me: this person was an asshole.
The house was a shit house on a shit street in a shit part of Los Angeles. My oldest brother got his own room (which I would sneak into and steal his Mamba candy) and I shared with my two other brothers. I spent my time between the crap shack and my Grandmama’s house while my mother was at work. During this time while walking to the store (yes, as a child I would walk to the store all by myself; apparently I did it when I was 2 years old once).
I was crossing the street and all of a sudden I was on the ground. I remember hearing a crunch before I went down. I looked up and the light turned green. Two cars sped away and I tried to stand up.
“You okay?” a guy asked me.
“Yeah” I lied. I wasn’t okay. I was the opposite of okay. I was un-okay. I held my right arm and started walking back to my grand mamma’s place. My cousin saw me before I got there and asked me what was wrong. “I got hit by a car” I told him. “Don’t tell Grandmama.” He said he wouldn’t and ran home and told her. She called my mother and she proceeded to curse me out.
“What the fuck yo stupid ass doin’ playin’ in the street?! Keep yo stupid ass inside!” she screamed.
Nothing like a mothers love, huh? A few days after this my parents decided enough time had passed and we moved back in. It sucked. On the weekend while they were split we actually went to church. I got to see my pa’s side of the family and it was cool. We watched movies and hung out like normal fathers and sons. I watched “An American Tail” and cried like a little bitch. Good times.
When we moved back my father went back to drinking. As we moved everything back inside my father walked over to me and sat down next to me looking pissed off.
“So you got hit by a car, huh?” he asked me. I burst into tears. I still don’t know why I did. Maybe I thought I was gonna get hit because of it. Maybe I was hoping that he was gonna feel some sympathy. Maybe I thought that after all the bullshit the family had just been through that maybe the chance that your youngest son almost being killed would make some kinda difference. It didn’t. He wrapped my arm in sports tape and that was that. No doctor. No check up. No anything.
To this day my knee is still fucked up. I can make it click if I keep it tight and straighten it. My arm doesn’t bother me. I always wonder what I would be like if I hadn’t been hit that day. I had always thought that my parents weren’t too fond of me. Hell, my mother told me I was an accident. That day I knew they didn't like me. Today if you ask her about me being hit by a car she says it didn’t happen. She has a way of forgetting almost all of my childhood. I wish I had that luxury.
Oh, and the name of my autobiography was gonna be titled “Playing In Traffic.”
Rockets.
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