The boy likes pancakes…
If you grew up in South St. Louis, you know this kitchen. It’s in a second floor apartment in a flat one house off the corner of Connecticut and Roger. It’s got that ugly green tile on the wall and that ugly beige stove no one wants to move out to the alley. The fridge is a second hand piece of shit that’s been spray painted to appear newer than it is. On the floor, the little blonde kid is playing with a few toys — probably army men or matchbox cars. He makes the sound effects as the toys bash into each other.
It’s early evening. Dad is in the living room watching the ballgame. Grandma is in the apartment downstairs. Mom and her sisters are out grocery shopping. The boy’s brothers are somewhere in the apartment…hiding in the closet probably…playing some strange made up game with stranger made up rules. Everything’s typical. Everything’s ordinary.
Mom’s home. The boy hears the sounds of groceries being carried up stairs as mom and her sisters chatter away about the crowd at the store, the drive home, and any number of things. Dad doesn’t move to help. One of the boy’s aunts says something to him about getting up and lending a hand.
“Mind your own business…”
“Don’t talk to my sister that way…”
A lot is said. The boy tunes it out. He’s good at that. He’s been doing it for years already, and he’s certain that this won’t be the last time he has to do so. Talking gives way to yelling. The groceries are set on the kitchen table. The boy has moved beneath that same table. The yelling has reached it’s peak.
“Bitch.”
“Asshole”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
He sits quietly beneath the table, invisible to the combatants around him. He has no idea what this fight is about. He doesn’t even think that this behavior is strange.
All of a sudden there’s a crash.
His father, during the course of the argument, somehow pushed or threw a one gallon jar of maple syrup to the floor. The bottle shatters into a million pieces. Syrup goes everywhere. The boy immediately starts crying. This was the straw that broke his back.
Shocked by the sound of the boy crying, his mother pulls him out from under the table.
“Are you hurt?” She asks, looking for cuts. “Did the glass hit you?”
The boy shakes his head, still in tears.
“What is it then?” his mother asked him.
“He broke the syrup,” The boy says. “Now we can’t have pancakes for breakfast tomorrow. ” The boy is in full on sob mode now.
His mother lets out one long sigh, pulls the boy to her - unable to respond with anything but laughter.
