1:
Back then I remember how easy it was to stone a person. Witches, thieves, even black people. I don’t know what’s happening with society now; we should go back to stoning, there would be fewer problems. Sure I’m old, and I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not racist, I have a black neighbor. Sure he tries to steal my things every once in a while, but he can’t wash off his blackness, I cannot blame him. I even had a black friend once, Jimothy. He was more brown than black, but what’s the difference? We became friends because we equally hated our boss: an Asian.
Mr. Tagasoki was skinny, black-haired and rude. He felt so powerful because he successfully bombed the crap out of US. His people had killed my son, sent planes right into his heart. I remember the pictures of his body that were sent to me. Blonde hair wet with blood and his skin pulled back by fire, I cried like a baby. I didn’t go to work for two days after I saw those pictures. Mr. Tagasoki fired me.
2.
Today is Tuesday, another day of dying. I don’t work anymore I just wander around, slowly pacing myself so I don’t run out of things to see. Everywhere I look my world has been ruined by races. The Japs bombed my son and the Mexicans spray painted my town. I don’t have the guts to shoot myself in the head, so I just keep living. I have this itch to die that I can’t scratch; I’m too much of a coward. Wrinkly hands, wrinkly shirt and wrinkly demeanor, I hate myself. I’ve only been proud of myself twice in my life. When my son was born and when I was awarded for shooting the shit out of the Germans. I used my gun like a hammer, smashing the tiny inferior nails.
Today is Tuesday and helicopters still blow me back. I’ve decided that today I will have breakfast at a diner, a little break from the old-man routine. I tried to make breakfast for myself today, but it was pulled back by fire. Burned toast is proof that black is terrible. My legs hurt now and I’ve only walked one block, I hate being old. I remember the younger days, when you could stone your problems away. Now it’s all complicated by stupid laws, loud cell phones and yelling teenagers. I think I’ve aged because the world is so loud now; it makes it so hard to sleep. I’m tired as hell and its only 9 AM. I don’t know how many blocks are left, each step is a risk.
Today is Tuesday, but not like any other Tuesday. Today I ran into my favorite slice of burned toast: Jimothy. “Long time no see,” he said as we walked to the diner together, major emphasis on the long.
3.
The Indian waitress sat us at the oldest table and handed us two menus. I already knew what I wanted. “Coffee with a lot of cream,” I told her. Jimothy told me he was watching his weight because his health was aging. He ordered a veggie omelet, “With bacon. Oh, and a milkshake,” he added. While we waited for the waitress we talked about the good old days and ignored that terrible Tuesday.
Jimothy yelled about how much he hated Mr. Nagasoki. I agreed. We joked and laughed about Mr. Nagasoki’s cheap suits and his expensive dental jobs. The Asian had always invested large amounts of money into permanent things, like his teeth. Jimothy recalled a time where we found an invoice in Mr. Nagasoki’s desk for an eye surgery he had never gotten done. That damned chink was trying to widen his eyes for seven thousand dollars! Mr. Nagasoki was trying to be white; he was trying to be me. It sickens me that he was trying to blend into the whiteness of the world. He was trying to fool everyone, trying to fool me.
4.
Jimothy told me that he had ran into the old Asian last Tuesday and that he was hard to recognize. Mr. Nagasoki had stopped him on the street for an old conversation about the weather. “Cold today isn’t it?” Jimothy said in his best gook voice. A nigger being racist, HAH, I never thought I’d see the day; everyone is trying to be white now. Nowadays, children with wet backs run around with American clothing, painting on American makeup and listening to American music. Everyone wants a white Christmas.
The re-enacted conversation went on for a good five minutes. Jimothy opened his mouth and flapped his tongue, each word more offensive than the next, I couldn’t stop laughing. Blacks are funny; it doesn’t surprise me that there are so many black comedians. Jimothy told me that the old Asian had paid for the surgery. Apparently Mr. Nagasoki’s eyes were as wide as a white man’s.
5.
I ordered another round of cream for my black coffee before I said goodbye to Jimothy and the cash register. I didn’t tell him where I was going, but for once in decades I had somewhere to go.
For the first time in forever I knew how many blocks were left to walk. I knew I’d find Mr. Nagasoki, I felt certain I’d run into him at that same corner where I’d run into Jimothy. I went to the corner and sat there.
Minutes passed, hours passed, people passed. Asian after Asian none of them were him. I never realized how similar they all looked. Mr. Nagasoki is like a piece of hay in a haystack. A chink in a chinkstack. He has about a billion twins, each from different mothers, but from the same motherland.
But Mr. Nagasoki wouldn’t look Asian anymore, he looks like me now. I don’t even know what I look like anymore. I removed every reflection from my house many years ago when I grew old and tired of looking at a wrinkly mirror. How am I supposed to find myself, if I don’t even know what I look like? I started walking in search of a reflection, searching for myself. I kept my eyes wide open on my search just in case he crossed my path. No sign of him.
A reflecting surface caught my attention and my face.
6.
It was worse than I thought. Wrinkles slid down the sides of my reflection, each crevice deeper than the next. A wrinkle for each year that has passed, how long have I been alive? It seems to me that each past tear has eroded its way down my face. A wrinkle for my dead mother. A wrinkle for my dead father. A wrinkle for my dead wife. A wrinkle for my dead son.
My face is a map of sorrows. Time isn’t fair. My eyes can hardly see myself. Squinting and crying like a baby, I pressed my palm against the glass. Why was I so old? I had more wrinkles than a thousand-year-old oak tree has rings. I’m just a thirsty potted plant that doesn’t want any more water. I want to die already. I want god to blow out my candle.
Looking at that reflection gave me the courage. I remembered where I kept my gun, I began running home. My aching hips creaking with each sprinted step. My back folded like an accordion, I didn’t care. My pain would end soon, with a bang. Street after street and avenue after avenue, each step closer to god.
7.
I’m so happy now, I’m going to die. I’m so sleepy and that gunshot will wake me. That loud noise will mute the loud world. I can already feel the bullet traveling through my head, making its way towards heaven. It was so easy for me to kill japs, krauts, and wops, now it is finally easy to kill a white. Now it’s so easy to kill myself. The reflection gave me the courage.
Finally, I grew too tired to make it home but I had to keep running, I was scared I would outlive this brief moment of courage.
I had to rest; I sat down on a curb. Panting and groaning I clutched my heart. Loud buzzing sounds echoed in my ears. My hearing aid was damaged, wrecked by the loudness of the world. My eyesight wavering and wiggling in a haze of craze, I’m so thirsty now.
A light tap stabbed my shoulder. Another wrinkled hand clutching a water bottle. My thirst took its toll and my roots quenched their thirst. I looked up at my ironic savior. An Asian man with wide eyes looked down at me in pity. He hardly looked Asian. It was Mr. Nagasoki and behind him stood Jimothy. I felt like a coyote in a wolf pack.
When my eyesight returned I realized I was sitting at the same curb. The same curb where I ran into Jimothy and where he had run into Mr. Nagasoki. Earlier this Tuesday I had wanted to find Mr. Nagasoki and shoot him in the head, but there he stood now, above me, making sure I was okay. A calm feeling bombed me as I looked into his eyes. The loud buzzing blasted at my hearing aid. An epiphany quenched my thirst: We are all the same, all birds eating from the same hummingbird feeder.
I don’t think Mr. Nagasoki recognized me behind my wrinkles. The buzzing stopped. He turned around and kept walking.
REFLECTION:
This is a writing assignment for my Creative Writing class. In this assignment I had to follow a technique invented by Nancy Zafris for organizing short story elements. I really enjoyed writing with these guidelines because it helped steer the story in a great direction. This format helped push me to write vital plot points and characters. I liked the formula because it strung format and free will together. I was able to be creative and experimental while still adhering to the strict guidelines. Zafris clearly knows what she's talking about.
This assingment and its guidleines helped me bring out the critical thinker within me. I was able to think critically about Zafris' structure before adhering to it. Analyzing Zafris' structure and studying its progression helped me grow as a critical thinker. Thinking critically about this assignment helped me apply its rules and regulations better. Knowing about the formula inside and out really came in handy during the project. I knew where the story would veer off to next, so I prepared as I wrote.
Writing this story was a little hard because of its content. I was constantly worried about the critical reception of what I was writing. Will I offend anyone? Will people understand that these words are a characters, not my own. I enjoyed writing stories that I was scared to write. The language I used alarmed me, but when I became the character I just kept writing.
Underneath all this writing there will be a few pictures. These are pictures of where I got my idea for this story. I picked out my character from a freewrite and decided to surround my story above him. I used this description of an old-man as a jumping off point for the entire story. I really liked how it came out.
HERE IS THE DESCRIPTION THAT INSPIRED THE STORY:
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