It’s 9 PM on a late summer evening outside on the patio. Crickets chirp, and a soft breeze blows. The light that normally illuminates the postage stamp back yard is off, but the safety lights from the nearby apartments shine bright enough to see. The stars are bright overhead. The dog sniffs around at some weeds that have overgrown their stay in the flowerbed and quietly conducts his business while a couple from down the street pass by cautiously with their own dog. They go unnoticed. Suddenly the couple’s three year old son zooms by on a Razor scooter, missing the neighbor’s car by inches and stopping just short of an old stump in the yard.
On a cool spring evening, a light breeze blows through the window. It’s just after dark. Neighborhood kids still play catch outside beneath the halo of light from the street lamps, their cajoling shouts echo off the apartment building next door. The dog sighs in contentment and stretches out on the floor. From across the street comes the distinctive sound of a lone shopping cart being wheeled down the sidewalk, miles away from its home in the Redner’s parking lot.
Three little girls are playing in the fenced in postage stamp yard of the White Trash Contingent. The game (for the next two minutes, anyway) apparently involves jumping from the top of some sort of two foot tall plastic slide structure to the seat of one of those flimsy plastic patio chairs, set approximately eight inches away.
“No, you go first, then I’ll go second, then she’ll go third…”
“OK, just GO!”
“But, wait, what if I go first…”
“I wanna be the mama!” (Poor child obviously thought they were still playing house)
“ALRIGHT, THAT’S IT.” Now the child starts brandishing the plastic chair as some sort of weapon. “Who wants a beatdown? Because the next person that pushes my butt is getting one!”
On a quiet street in a darkened neighborhood at eight o’clock at night, there’s man in a red Jazzy scooter equipped with neither headlight nor reflective tape, rolling down the middle of the street with no regard to the evening traffic. A passing motorist honks in warning.
The oblivious man in the red Jazzy scooter rolls on.