Apartment 2B, 153rd Street
Once we both passed the door of the apartment, it felt as if I passed through a tunnel in time in which I could visualize the place where I grew up and spent some of the most happy moments in all my life. My view could not avoid giving a turn through all the apartment: from the small kitchen in the corner until the worn-out sofa in the living room next to the television.
"Go change and wash your hands while I prepare you something to eat, heart," I heard my aunt say while she walked toward the kitchen.
"Ok," I responded to her quickly while I walked through the small hallway that gave direction to the rooms.
We lived in a rented apartment on 153rd Street, right in front of Rufus King Park, in a remotely safe zone in what could be considered in a place like Queens. The apartment was somewhat small, with only 2 rooms, a bathroom, and a living room-kitchen, but for an adult person and a small child it was a space more than enough.
A few steps later I was in front of the door that gave place to my room. After taking the handle and with a slight turn, I entered into what once was my safe place, my cave of solitude, my fort.
"Nothing has changed since the last time," Aaron said with a light smile appearing in the curvature of his mouth while he entered into his room. It was a small room where the bed occupied a great part of the already by itself reduced space, but that to Aaron did not matter.
Instinctively his gaze passed to the posters that were displayed on the walls of the room, such as Iverson, Jordan and the Bulls, Shaquille O'Neal, among other consecrated stars. Before the image of all those legends, he could not avoid remembering the days in which he dreamed with some day stepping on a court in the middle of the exclamations of the people chanting his name in the middle of the 7th game that defines the champion of the NBA.
And it is that, what child has never dreamed with being a superstar of the NBA? That millions of people chant your name in a stadium while you put in the basket that gave the victory to your team. But, of course, always comes the age in which the dreams stay only in those: dreams.
And it is that, being realistic, only less than 1% of the athletes that get to play in the NCAA get to become professionals. And all is based in staying in one of the 60 positions of the Draft; if some team gets to say your name, it is as if you had touched for a brief moment the sky. But then comes the most difficult part: staying there. And it is that the average career of a player is less than 5 years, and that without counting that the teams can get to cut you from one day to another.
The hard reality is that for the teams the players are simply assets; once they see that the level of a certain player decreases or they do not see any potential in him, they simply discard him from one moment to another. You can have been a superstar or the franchise player of the team, but even so that does not guarantee you that you will not be fired from one day to another.
The last case that I remember of this was that of Chris Paul; once he announced that he would retire and that this would be his farewell tour, from one moment to another he was cut in a sharp way and without mercy by the management of the Clippers. If not even one of the best point guards in history and 12-times All-Star could save himself from being cut, it only demonstrates how ruthless the league can be.
Leaving those thoughts, a smile installed itself on my face while I ran straight toward the bed and did something that my inner child asked for with screams. I began to jump on the bed without control.
"Yei!", I kept saying while I gave jumps on the bed without any shame.
"Stop jumping on the bed!!", my aunt was heard shouting through the hallway and probably through all the building.
"Ok," I responded to her, and with a spiritless look I settled on the bed while I waited for the food to be ready.
I did not have to wait long, maybe 10 minutes, until I heard my aunt say: "It is already served, come so that it does not get cold," said Paola while she waited for me to go to the kitchen.
"Voy," I shouted while I stood up with a jump and went out barefoot from the hallway; the slight creak of the wood under my feet was the signal that I was going rumbo toward the small little table in the kitchen.
"Did you wash your hands?", my aunt asked in an interrogative tone. My aunt seems to have anticipated my response upon seeing how I opened my eyes in a comical way.
"Go wash yourself to be able to eat," was the only response of my aunt before I could say any word.
Quickly I stand up in direction of the bathroom and in less than 2 minutes I was already back. Once seated, I could see in what consisted the food, which were some simple spaghettis with meatballs and a pitcher of water. Considering that my aunt and the kitchen do not get along at all well, I could intuit that probably these were the leftovers of the food from yesterday.
In other times, the simple idea of eating the same thing two days in a row would have seemed ghastly to me, but here and now a feeling of nostalgia returned to my mind upon tasting again the food that my mother prepared. So much was the emotion that from one moment to another I found myself zampando (scarfing down) the plate as if my life went in it.
In a given moment I raised my gaze and could notice the way in which my aunt looked at me, as if another head had grown on me.
"It seems that you liked the food," she said with a slight giggle in her voice while she passed me a napkin so that I cleaned all the tomato sauce that I had all over my face. With a small embarrassed smile I took the napkin that she offered me and began to clean my face and my hands before the attentive gaze of my aunt.
After I cleaned my face, my aunt and I continued eating in a comfortable and pleasant silence in the middle of the kitchen, with the noise of the city and that of the people of the park as background music.
In a given moment the gaze of my aunt again settles on me and I see how she tries to find the adequate words to be able to start to address what was circling in her head. There was no necessity of being a genius to be able to know what it is that she wanted to ask.
"If you have something to ask, just say it," I said to my aunt while I could see how her gaze changed to a slightly embarrassed one while carefully she formulated the question that ate her curiosity.
"Are you sure that you do not remember what it was that happened to you?", she asked in an interrogative tone while she did not move her gaze from mine and waited to be able to see any sign of a lie in my face.
Before her gaze she saw how Aaron avoided her gaze as if he were trying to hide something or avoid her realizing something.
"Yes, I do not remember how it happened," I responded after some seconds in silence while I returned her gaze.
"Why do I feel that you are lying to me?", Paola asked in an inquisitive tone.
Before that I began to weigh my pros and cons about whether to tell the truth to my aunt or if I must continue feigning ignorance toward the altercation that happened just some hours before.
"Fine," I heard her suddenly say. "You do not have to tell me what is happening," was the simple response she gave me before the frowned brow that I directed her before what she said. "Just remember that always your mother and I are for whatever you need," she kept saying while she gave me a calming smile.
"You do not have to worry aunt, all is under control," I said suddenly with a resolute tone in my voice.
And that was true, because I already had a plan ready in my mind to assure myself that Lionel and his henchmen know that they must never mess with me again and that I was no longer the same boy that did the errands for them. A sinister smile escaped from my mouth slightly upon thinking in what I would do to him and his henchmen once I can return to the school.
Upon seeing my smile my aunt felt a brief shiver. "Poor boy," she thought while trying to imagine what it is that I would do to the boys that did that to me. Because maybe Aaron believes that he could deceive her, but she could notice by his expression, and in the way in which he eludes telling what was what happened, that that hit in the head someone did it to him.
"For now I will trust in him," she thought while she decided to trust temporarily in that he could solve that problem on his own.
"Ok," she said while she stood up and smoothed the imaginary wrinkles in the dress.
"I must return to the salon. I asked permission to go out a moment due to Mel finding herself working a double shift, but it is already time to return," she said with a slight sigh of tiredness upon imagining having to return and start to cut the hair of hundreds of people.
"Your mother probably will be here soon, in some minutes. Will you be calm here alone?", she asked me.
"Yes, I will be fine," was the simple response I gifted her while I gave her a light smile so that she goes calm.
Directing herself toward the door she turned briefly asking me: "Sure that you do not want to come with me to the salon?".
In as much as she mentioned the word salon, my mind could not avoid recalling memories that I would prefer to forget. Even though the hair salon was a unisex one, almost 90% of the time it was found full of the women of the neighborhood gossiping and telling the different events that occurred in the block. Passing the next hour being surrounded by women gossiping about the last thing that happened or about who is with who did not seem to me the best option for entertaining oneself in what my mother returned from work.
"Yes, yes, I will be fine, do not make the clients wait," I responded to her this time in a bit more insistent way while I accompanied her to the door.
Before the insistent tone in my voice, my aunt could not avoid sighing while she directed herself straight to the salon. With one last gaze toward my direction she closed the door and I could hear the tapping of her heels in the stairs signaling me that effectively she was leaving.
Once being alone in the apartment, I could not avoid throwing out the air once I could dodge the bullet of having to go to the salon with her. And it is that another inconvenience of going to the salon is that, having 5 years again, I could not avoid that the women grabbed me by the cheeks and spoke to me in a tone as if I were a baby. And it is that nothing can be more undignified for a boy than that they grab your cheeks every 2 by 3.
"Safe," I could not avoid saying in a whisper while I thanked not having had to suffer that torture.
Once my aunt left I could notice that the dishwasher is full of dirty dishes from yesterday and today. With a sigh I approached to wash them when suddenly I realized that I did not arrive to even touch the tap; literally I had to put myself on tiptoes to be able to even see the bottom of the dishwasher.
Before that I could not avoid cursing before the obvious disadvantages of returning to be a boy, and it is that from the point of view of a boy everything around him is giant and is out of his reach. From a quick glance around the living room I devised a bench on which to lean myself to be able to wash the service.
Once I could reach the tap I put on the gloves and began to clean the tableware that there was to wash. After a brief time I began to hum slightly while I followed with my task. Such was my concentration that I did not get to hear the sound of the door opening nor the sound of the shoes that approached toward my direction.
In the moment in which I felt some arms surrounding my small body, I knew that I was no longer alone. Turning slowly I saw her.
"Hello heart," she said to me with a soft voice and a genuine smile of joy on her face.
"Hi mom," was the only thing I could say in that moment.
Author's note
What did you think of today's episode?
I wasn't originally going to post anything, but wow, I saw that over 10,000 people are reading the book, so I just want to say thank you to everyone who's giving this story a chance.