A grandson of one who came from the land of Genesee and Adrian cautiously enters a place in The City where rights to hold flags are bought and sold. He is rough, with hard eyes, and scars that range like craggy rocks across his neck and face. His clothing and movements match those of foreigners known never to pull plants, clean floors, or otherwise serve The City’s natives.
Alone, he is painfully aware of being the first of his kind to show any interest in the power and beauty of the flag shapes.
He reaches a daunting inner gate.
A tall figure with a black cap and heavy stick steps forward to block the way. A tiny metal shield pinned to the tall man’s chest shows all in The City he is in charge of keeping something safe.
Neither man speaks.
Anger wells up like a hidden eruption from beneath the scarred man’s skin . . . a hot seething he has always known, yet one he would never hope to carry.
As teeth and muscles clench unseen, the scarred man feels the coarsest patches of his face begin to steam. He knows he will not pass this point. He has reached what will now have forever been his limit.
Thus far, and no farther.
Not him. Too different and too old to be so out of place.
Too early, and too late.
In a nearby den, points of view considered newest in The City are blurted with utmost seriousness, one-by-one, to then be leaped upon by any who might wish to try to tear them down for fun.
For a time, most in the den would say to the scarred man stuck at that possibly redundant gate something along the lines of: “Why would you want to look like trouble? What could a security guard really do to a grown-ass man if you’d just say something like, ‘Yeah, I’m thinking of going here. I wanted to check it out first.’? What’s your motivation for putting out this vibe that can only tie you to the worst troublemakers in our society? What good reason could you have ever had to join a gang in the first place?”
Many cries for help are heard like beacons in that busy den. Yet everyone ignores one man’s.
The ignored man concludes his day’s renditions with: “I hope you people don’t feel like I’m blaming you for all the horrible stuff in my life!”
A woman somewhere listens as an older man attempts to speak. She quivers, fondly imagining hurting him as his voice quarbles and rasps along so slowly, breaking unpredictably into disgusting slurps and squeaks. She is incensed at his failure to keep up with his own thoughts . . . infuriated by all signs of his coming apart.
I don't know anything 