Chasing your dreams is like an awesome road trip (with a few flat tires) that never ends.
You’re never quite there…
You always find another road.
© Shayne McClendon
“What’s your name, kid?” the deli owner asked her as she rested against the side of his building.
“Mink. Who’s askin’?” She didn’t like folks poking into her business. She was waiting on the bus and didn’t need to get hassled.
“Hmm. Interesting blue hair you got there.”
“Yeah…” Older people always had shit to say about the different colors, the piercings, the tats.
“You live up on the corner, right? I’ve seen you in the neighborhood.”
He better not be a perv. “Yeah. That’s right. How you know that?”
The way he laughed was a surprise and she frowned. “Settle down, Mink. Got no interest in a kid young enough to be my great-grandkid. I need somebody close to run errands and I’ll slip you a couple bucks.”
He was raised by a bunch of men who defined every valuable thing by the color of the man or woman who possessed it.
If a fancy car was driven by a white man, it was a sign of success and class. By a black man, it musta been stolen.
For the first fifteen years of his life, he didn’t know better. He thought the same, talked the same, and figured everybody else been raised like him.
Then he almost died. A man he didn’t know, a man owed him nothing, saved his life. A man with skin many shades darker than his own.
Racing the back roads, he flipped his car. A black man walking the road with a big pack on his back stopped to help. His girlfriend told him in the hospital the man trained as a medic in the Army.
Without him, without his skills and his mercy, he would have died.