I wrote this for the three-hour flash fiction battle with . Enjoy.
We were the last Chink family in Harlem, back in 1969. We moved there when the winter wind was at its most vicious. Fresh off the boat we headed for the bus station, my sister and I wearing jackets riddled with holes through which yellow padding came out like sofa stuffing. My mother still says those were the worst days of her life. She used to watch us cry while we waited for buses in the cold.
Of our first summer I remember only one day. The afternoon was so torrid that the heat crept into my mouth along with the grit I chewed. Along the avenue the hydrants burst at their seams. Dirty children shoved each other into the water.
My father was taking me back from a playdate I’d had with my one wealthy friend. Six months earlier, Tony’s family had escaped to the other end of the park.
On the street I noticed a friend playing, and my father gave me a benevolent nod.
I threw off my shirt and dropped my pants. I was all set to run toward the water but, before I could, I noticed a change in my father. I followed his eyes to my underpants. We were both staring an enormous bulge. I must’ve looked like a child prodigy, a five year-old with a dick so long and hard that it could’ve been crowned the heavyweight champion of the world. Even my father needed a second to recover from his amazement. Then he started to growl in Korean:
“What the hell is that?”
I was too afraid to respond.
He snapped the band back and took a look himself.
There it was: A silver and red toy rocket.
“I borrowed it from Tony,” I said.
I can’t remember his eyes but I’ve seen how they flash since, when the direction of his rage turns away from himself and towards the world.
Five years later, we escaped Harlem too. Now we are all old, my parents especially. My sister visits them more than I do, but I still make it a point to head over for Thanksgiving each year. The four of us sit around their thousand dollar dinner table. My mother describes my father as he was in his youth. He was so joyful, she says, he used to play tricks on the principal. He grunts in agreement. And then, after dinner, we flip through the photo album we kept after our move. You can watch the lines on his face harden and his smile give out.
In that album there is one photo of Tony and me with the little toy rocket. I’m holding it snug to the “S” on my Superman shirt. Last year I wanted to talk to my father about it, but my sister says the time for that passed decades ago. It’s better to leave things as they are, she says, and I listen to her because she’s always been the more prudent one of the two.
i appreciated this even more the third time reading it. You had the winning story in that beat in the park. The writing throughout is very clean and the tone and voice are consistent and excellent. Your dead pan writing style works well for your comedic set ups.
"We were the last Korean family in Harlem, back in 1969." I have to point this out. This is a good opening but its historically non-sensical. Koreans started coming in large waves to the United States after the 1965 immigration law that changed how immigration was done in the country. By 1969, this family would have been one of the FIRST Korean families in Harlem. The story loses nothing with this change, actually its themes are likely stronger, and you are more accurate. I have so many questions about the narrator in this story. He seems like late 30s now. Thinking back. Anyways. easy to get this wrong in such a tight time period, but thought i should mention it, since i did look this up to check it out.