The Boy And The Blue Tricycle

The boy in the gray shorts sits on the brick stairs above the blue tricycle. It’s the only thing of value he owns. His legs are as spindly as that of a newborn foal. The boy spends his days alone, taking things apart and putting them together again.

He dreams that his bike will take him places. The boy flips the bike on its side and, like a bus driver, spins the rear wheel until the rubber tire turns his palms gray.

      His mother forbids him from:

              swimming – afraid he’ll drown.

                riding in the street – afraid a car will hit him.

              leaving the yard - afraid a stranger will snatch him.

One day, the boy is befriended by his slightly older neighbor. He envisions his neighbor being able to open up doors for him. They get along until his neighbor digs up his tricycle’s white cushioned seat, with a stick, to impress older kids. The boy feels violated. He wishes he’d fought back. He knows that his single mother will never replace his bicycle. The boy cries but stops, looks down at the brown foam oozing from the open wound.

Years later, his neighbor dies in a crash and everyone is sad. They remember his neighbor as being a great athlete, a valedictorian, the model son/neighbor.  The now adolescent boy feels out of place. No one remembers how his neighbor picked on little kids.

The now adolescent boy feels guilty that he missed the wake. He hears how the brakes in his neighbor’s – relatively new and recently serviced – car inexplicably failed. How his car careened into traffic and collided head-on with a city bus. The boy looks at his hands, still gray from working on the wreck out back, and marvels at their capability.
First published in Bethlehem Writers Roundtable https://sites.google.com/site/bethlehemwritersroundtable/gary-floyd