CONCRETE PUNCH BY CHRISTOPHER DAVID ROSALES 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 09
After they jacked your car you had to walk home. You had to take the path along the riverbed. The concrete path. The razorthin river. And already in your head the story was changing.
You hadn’t been cruisin where you shouldn’t have been cruisin. You’d been one block east, next to gramma’s house. You hadn’t had the windows down and the music bumpin, leaning against the door like a badass when they bumrushed you. And you hadn’t begged them neither. You’d got out the car real slow, gripped the keys so that they stuck out right beneath your knuckles. Your fist was like a gauntlet. You’d put up a good fight, but there was more of them.
Yeah. That sounded pretty good.
But from where you’d laid cheek against gritty asphalt, you really had seen their Chuck Taylor’s scramble round the car, and you’d actually seen their shoes raise up behind the doors when they got in, as if they were ascending. Just like they’d been lifted, not by a classic ‘67 engine, but by divine rods and cylinders and even intervention. Lifted away, away from this city. Taken, to cruise like lords through the sky, to look down at the concrete riverbed. Where you’ve been kneeling, bloodyknuckled and defiant, changing your story one concrete punch at a time.