Closed Fists
He grabbed my comic books and started to run. I ran after him. I was faster than him and when I caught him I threw him against the accordion gates of a closed candy store. I hit him over and over again with closed fists. He let go of the bag and ran away. “I was only playin’,” I heard him scream.
The bag full of take-out food that my mother sent me to buy was on the sidewalk. I was afraid to look inside. I let it fall to the ground when I gave chase and I was sure that the container had opened and the medium-rare cooked steak along with the buttered baked potato would be out of its container and one within the bag.
I was twelve blocks away from home and it was dark. I didn’t have a wristwatch but I knew it was about nine o’clock. I was always told to call when I was late but I had spent all my money on comic books.
When I got home my mother snatched the bag out of my hand and shouted at me. I didn’t tell her about the mugging attempt. I just closed my eyes in an attempt to drown her out.
Afterwards I went into my bedroom, tossed the brown paper bag filled with comic books on the bed and wept.
