I saw the future.
I saw the future. And it ain't pretty.
It's got some astrologically influenced name from the Farmer's Almanac, bleached blonde hair with dark roots shooting out from a ratty ponytail precariously affixed on the top of it's skull - a lot like Judy Jetson, way too much Wal-Mart makeup, and is clad in some extremely oversized, state-fair-airbrushed, 2 Pac T-shirt.
Her Jordache, velcro secured, 3/4 tops tap, tap, tap on the dingy bar's gravel lot. The fake fur from her hood of her once white overcoat frame her face as she smacks gum like Britney Spears. She laughs, then cries, then angers all within the time it takes to approach her and become disgusted with her lackadaisical affect. She's got the soul of a hardened 40 year old, and she's only 13.
I won't tell you the whole story as to why we were standing in that parking lot when it was 29 degrees with 5 cops, 1 mother, and a 13 year old going on 40. She didn't really know why, she could never get her story straight. Therefore, the cops didn't know why and felt it necessary to call the paramedics, so we could arrive and concur in the consensus that nobody had a clue what was going on.
Something about weed, mushrooms, hickies, and boyfriends.
But, looking at her as she tried to articulate the fact that she was on a speeding train to a dead end, I realized I was looking at the future. As she rambled on about the fact that she quit school because she didn't like it, or had numerous "boyfriends", or had already come home reeking of weed and tripping like a 70's rock star, I began to see the future. This is where it all begins, this is her destiny. This, seemingly, is what she wants.
That washed up, drugged out, pot-mark-faced, high-heeled hooker cruising the avenue was her. Like looking into a magic 8-ball, I forecasted the life of this little girl. It's true, too.
Is this mean? Do I sound callous? Am I upset? Are you?
What am I suppose to do? "Little girl, don't do drugs and go to school." Like she's never heard that before. How am I going to alter the inevitable events of this avenue bound teen?
I'm not. I'm going tell her she's full of shit, release her to the cops, and then tell the angry, uneducated, chain-smoking mother in the background that "if anything changes, call us back." Which they will, I assure you. Not for this, but for when the angry 18 year old boyfriend finds out she was cheating on him with his best friend while he was in County jail -the once best friend who rides his bike to work at Subway because he's already lost his license.
It's got some astrologically influenced name from the Farmer's Almanac, bleached blonde hair with dark roots shooting out from a ratty ponytail precariously affixed on the top of it's skull - a lot like Judy Jetson, way too much Wal-Mart makeup, and is clad in some extremely oversized, state-fair-airbrushed, 2 Pac T-shirt.
Her Jordache, velcro secured, 3/4 tops tap, tap, tap on the dingy bar's gravel lot. The fake fur from her hood of her once white overcoat frame her face as she smacks gum like Britney Spears. She laughs, then cries, then angers all within the time it takes to approach her and become disgusted with her lackadaisical affect. She's got the soul of a hardened 40 year old, and she's only 13.
I won't tell you the whole story as to why we were standing in that parking lot when it was 29 degrees with 5 cops, 1 mother, and a 13 year old going on 40. She didn't really know why, she could never get her story straight. Therefore, the cops didn't know why and felt it necessary to call the paramedics, so we could arrive and concur in the consensus that nobody had a clue what was going on.
Something about weed, mushrooms, hickies, and boyfriends.
But, looking at her as she tried to articulate the fact that she was on a speeding train to a dead end, I realized I was looking at the future. As she rambled on about the fact that she quit school because she didn't like it, or had numerous "boyfriends", or had already come home reeking of weed and tripping like a 70's rock star, I began to see the future. This is where it all begins, this is her destiny. This, seemingly, is what she wants.
That washed up, drugged out, pot-mark-faced, high-heeled hooker cruising the avenue was her. Like looking into a magic 8-ball, I forecasted the life of this little girl. It's true, too.
Is this mean? Do I sound callous? Am I upset? Are you?
What am I suppose to do? "Little girl, don't do drugs and go to school." Like she's never heard that before. How am I going to alter the inevitable events of this avenue bound teen?
I'm not. I'm going tell her she's full of shit, release her to the cops, and then tell the angry, uneducated, chain-smoking mother in the background that "if anything changes, call us back." Which they will, I assure you. Not for this, but for when the angry 18 year old boyfriend finds out she was cheating on him with his best friend while he was in County jail -the once best friend who rides his bike to work at Subway because he's already lost his license.
Comments