The alleyways tucked between the crevices of concrete that make up Des Moines are sanctuaries for hidden life. There’s an alley just off E. 14th ave, which connects east to South, crammed between an old Barbershop with Supreme Cuts splashed across the top in funky, white and blue cursive and a new Thai restaurant which nobody – or at least nobody in the neighborhood – seems to eat at. Two blocks away from the high school, four blocks away from the old brick-caste junior high school, this alley was among the East side’s most trafficked sanctuaries; it was the shady pasture adjacent the watering hole. The dark pass way teemed with the comings of goings of life; pushers clad in busted jeans and a wife beat, skinny itchy fiends would come dressed the same way, hoodlums cloaked in reds and blues and blacks and greens came from far and near to battle over territories, painters came armed with can in hand and plastered their souls onto walls in ghetto cursive, and the laughter of children at play seemed to rise above all the other sounds of this urban Serengeti.
The summer sun stood tall in the sky, beating down on the city with a heat that would be multiplied time and time over again by the unforgiving black concrete. The air in the alley was damp with the smell of wet trash wafting by, and chilled by the near constant shade it was subjected to. From the end of the alley came an innocent shriek which pierced the stagnant mid-day air. A little girl darted into the alley, her gait was pigeon toed and as she covered her hair with her arms her little pink Dora tank top rose above her belly button. Behind her a menacing boy, perhaps her elder by a year or two, came bearing down on her in full sprint brandishing a bright green water gun. “Nick!” She screamed, stopping to turn and face her torturer. “Mama said not to get my hair wet!” The boy, still holding the water gun to the top of her head, let a smile befit for the Grinch creep across his dirty brown face. The girls lip quivered, the angst had become obvious in her face. She was relieved to have a break from the humiliating stream of water he had been dousing her with and yet she knew the relief was to be short lived. That stare down must have lasted two eternities. The girls eyes watering with annoyance as she ran her fingers through her tangled hair, the boy’s face glowing with the power he held in his hand. Finally, the boy broke the tension, “Well you better run then nigga!” He half laughed, half shouted. The water began again. The girl began to wail as tears streamed down her eyes. Her foot caught on a stray two by four on the alley floor and now the boy stood over her, triumphant in his raucous laughter. “Hey!” I yelled. The boy froze in his tracks. He did not lift the water gun. His eyes fixed on my own trying to assess this new, unanticipated challenge. The girl rose to her feet, vengeance painted in a snarl across her face, and raised her two hands in a closed fist above his head. She brought down with all her might and rage a clubbing blow onto the boys head. It was his turn to fall to the ground in a pitiful wailing heap. She stood over him for only a moment, “Just wait till I tell momma!” She cried and darted out the alleyway as quickly as she had come.
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October 2018
Matt BruceViva DSM!! |