Short Story: Hastings, 1985

A new short story about something that happened a while back.

When we were little, the best game was to try to leap and touch the signs that were hanging there outside the shops. We were free as we tried, nowhere near enough height to even get close. But what was vital was the chance to get a few steps ahead of the adults.

We would be running through the whole town, as we saw it. Saturday night, but not too late, the shops all closed for the weekend. And we might have been out for dinner if very lucky, or just out for a drive if still lucky enough. And my brother could sometimes touch the bottom of a sign. And my cousin would sometimes get close.

I never got very close at all, too small, too slow, and no real ability to jump. But hey, just rushing ahead like that was taking a leap.

One time, though, I was glad to be so far off. My brother had taken his very best shot and hit the sign with the tips of his fingers, it creaked on rusty hinges, whining like a hose. And a guy walking the other way, freezing-worker gumboots, his hood up tight, took two steps across and booted him hard. A black footprint instantly there on my brother’s white shorts. The guy yelled something about fuck off kids, or maybe fuck off cunts.

And like it was nothing he carried on his way, all part of the same story to him, a story forever mounting. A slight sway in time with the swigs from out of the brown paper bag. My brother simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And we were suddenly all in shock. The world was big back then. And this was enormous news.

We had just gotten too far ahead of ourselves.

And so we waited for the adults to catch up and we told them as best we could, through breathless, artless prose, what had happened.

“Who did this?” my father cried out, his chest all puffed and ready. We pointed. And he went straight up to an old white guy, close to 80, in what was one-day probably someone’s very best suit. But not this day of course. That was about as far away as my father’s accusation.

“Excuse me, did you just kick my son?” And boy was he angry. We were all shaking our heads, and almost laughing, because this was just a million miles wrong. And the old guy was reaching to adjust his hearing aid. It was super comical and also at the very same time it wasn’t.

We all pointed again, to someone half that guy’s age, and twice his size, with different skin — and everything. And my dad paused for a minute, then told us all to head for the car. Like some sleeves were about to get rolled up real good.

But when we got there, dad was right along us, opening the door, and herding us quickly, and telling us to forget about it all, hey since it was probably just a mistake.