ONCE UPON a        TIME
                                                                                          ezine at l'atelier bonita
                                                     established since december 2002

Stages Of Cruelty                                by  Heather M. Borstel We once pushed my cousin’s baby stroller to the mid-point of the hill in front of our house, with him in it, and let him go bouncing and flying down to the bottom, not really concerned whether he’d survive the trip or not. When the stroller reached the base of the hill in relative safety, we pushed it back up even higher and tried it again. The stroller flipped over after it had rolled a while and my cousin ended up sliding a few feet on his face. We all got into a lot of trouble for that one. Another time, a few of us grabbed Terry Heaney’s little brother Sean and persuaded him to eat a bag of photo developing crystals we’d found outside the new condominiums down the block. I told him it was candy, kind of like Pixy Stix. His parents had to take him to the emergency room and get his stomach pumped. He couldn’t play with us for a while after that. In those days, our favorite game was called “Interview With A Cat Up A Tree”. We’d grab one of the neighborhood cats and carry it to the highest branch we could reach on the big Elm in our backyard. Pretending to hold a microphone at the squirming cat, we’d mimic the voice of god local news anchorman Van Amburg, asking, “Is it true? Do cats ALWAYS land on their feet?” Then we’d toss the poor cat overboard, discovering several times that it wasn’t always true. We spent our days taunting other kids for going to rival schools, for being Mexican, for liking the Dallas Cowboys, or for having an inferior tree-swing in their front yard. We’d flip off the kids that sat on the back of the #11 bus when it would swing around the corner and ran like sprinters when they’d pile off the bus, skateboards in hand, looking to kill us. Hiding under the steps of somebody’s house, we’d steal away until they tired of waiting around for us and got back on the bus heading to Mission Street. Then we’d do it again for the next scheduled bus. Eventually, we became friends with the Gamez kids, Candido, Benito and Lupe, who we’d previously had a war with because they were Mexican. They lived in the biggest house on the block, full of silver- trimmed saddles, Western tack, drinking horns, princess phones, walk-in closets and weird Spanish portraits of Carlotta Valdez-look alikes that had eyes that would follow you around the room. The Gamez’s father, Jesualdo led the Palomino Brigade at every Cinquo de Mayo parade and owned the El Tapatio restaurant on Valencia Street, which was famous for it’s strolling twelve-piece Mariachi band. One afternoon I dared Candido Gamez to get the Mariachi’s to come up and play for us. He called the club on one of those big, shiny princess phones, and ten minutes later a Cadillac pulled up to the curb in front of his house. Out piled the entire ensemble and they marched around the block, playing Guantanamera and La Cucaracha and Mi Cantante. Then they got back into the car and drove back to the club. Later that day, we saw Candido getting chased around the block by his horse-whip wielding father, for unauthorized use of his Mariachi band on a weekend. Candido climbed a tree and wouldn’t come down until his father promised not to whip him and instead promised him some ice-cream. Candido was never very smart, and when he did climb down, his father whipped him in front of everybody. The same cousin who took the exciting stroller ride down 24th Street, grew older and more annoying. He never knew when to shut up. Finally, after one whine too many, we duct-taped him to a telephone pole, feet dangling a few inches above the pavement. We left him hanging there for a couple of hours until he’d learned his lesson. I had come up with the duct-tape idea after going to see the Circus, which was a great source for new material. Michu, The World’s Smallest Man had made his big entrance in the center ring, emerging from a tiny little box. We found a packing box in an empty lot and taped Kemper Hillis inside, and then rolled it down the staircase. He came out much more bruised than Michu had. The acrobat who swung around the Ball Of Death had hung by his heels from his trapeze, so I convinced Kemp to do the same from our backyard swing. He hung successfully for a millisecond and then fell flat on his face. He had to get six stitches, but tried it again the next day. He broke his nose that time. Alex Valli came up with the brilliant idea that Kemper and his girlfriend, Angela, should consumate their relationship since they loved each other so much. Everyone thought it was a super idea, and it was about the time they were going at it, grade-school style, in the back seat of someone’s green Volkswagon bug, Kemper scratching his ass mid-pump, that the postman walked by. Although, they probably weren’t, at seven years old, fucking per se, Mr. Postman was properly scandalized, and we never tried that one again. For years after, when we’d see a green Volkswagon bug we’d crack up, and then feel a little guilty about the whole thing. We’d smash the toys of kids we didn’t like and throw rocks at the windows of adults who crossed us. We’d smack each other around for the smallest breach of neighborhood etiquette, and all our sports turned violent eventually. One time I got tagged so hard during a kickball game that I tumbled backwards, cracking my head on the asphalt. I passed out and saw a little blue man with a brush mustache who told me to get out of the street or I’d get run over by a car. When I came to, I had a headache, couldn’t see very well and had to wear glasses for ever after, although I am sure there is no connection at all. We’d mock every stutterer, lisper, limper, geek, four-eyes, retard and gimp. If someone was defectless, we’d mock their normality. Every Turk, Spic, Chink, Flip, Wop, Whitey, Ayrab, Nigger, Homo and Slut had a nickname, as did every Shorty, Stretch, Giraffe, Ugly, Stoner, Pony Nose, Dog Boy, Pinhead and Moron. Sometimes people like to make pronouncements about how childhood is such a beautiful and innocent state, and how children are really wonderful creatures. When they go on like that, I just keep my mouth shut. ©2003 Heather M. Borstel _____________ Heather M. Borstel was born in San Francisco, California, at the dawn of the 1970s. She lives in the shadow of Twin Peaks, went to Catholic school and San Francisco State University, and is of average height, build and appearance. She enjoys contract bridge, falconry, Gandhian nonviolence and whipping up a nice pot of Vegetable Medley. Her favorite song is "Superstar" by the Carpenters, which she sings without shame at karaoke bars, and her favorite book is Anna Karenina. Heather was once said to have a wit which rivals that of Bennett Serf by her third grade teacher, but she has yet to find any evidence that Bennett Serf was witty. She has never had the stigmata, curses like a stevedore, and makes a mean White Russian. Heather would like the phrase "I told you I was sick!" chiseled on her tombstone.

                                                   ONCE UPON      a TIME
                                                                                          ezine at l'atelier bonita
                                                     established since december 2002