The killer in me
I almost killed a boy today. On purpose. We had just set out over the bridge across the river to begin our day of photographing churches. I had seen three boys playing with cellphones near the mouth of the bridge where it widened out into the street, but they were about 8-10, and I didn’t think I had much to worry about. This is where being an observant person comes in handy: about half way across the bridge I noticed a shadow a little too close behind me, what appeared to be a short man on a cell phone. Suddenly an Italian man yards away yelled out Ragazzi!and I stopped short, swinging around to find a boy running away.
My bag, which I had been carrying messenger style behind me, was gaping open. I ran my hand through, checking for missing holes while simultaneously running full boar after the street rat. He stopped at the end of the bridge and lifted his shirt, showing that he had nothing, but making provoking gestures like comeon, whadda ya gonna do? And you know what? At that moment I thought about picking him up by his greasy rat scuff and dangling him over the charging river and its concrete bed to teach him a lesson. I was so full of pent up anger at all of the sh#$%% we’ve had to deal with in this trip, so burned with disillusionment and rage, so ready to snap his neck over the idignity of his actions that I scared myself.
I knew he didn’t have anything; my wallet was beneath a huge plastic bag of Clare’s plastic dinosaurs, and my hand had found my camera immediately after I swung around. But I didn’t care. I knew if anything was gone it wouldn’t be him who had it, it would be the boy furthest away, the little one who could run the fastest. But I didn’t care. I wanted to strike the provoking kid so that his friends learned a lesson too. I yelled at him: next time, you little bastard, I’m calling the police! And to that he lifted his shirt again, indignant this time, and made a gesture like go ahead, see what they do. And I didn’t care. I knew they would do nothing. As it is in Italy. That’s probably why my reflex to dangle the little bugger over certain death was so strong. And still is so strong. I feel vulnerable. Helpless. Adrift. And open to any devious hand rifling through my pockets and my identity.
My bag, which I had been carrying messenger style behind me, was gaping open. I ran my hand through, checking for missing holes while simultaneously running full boar after the street rat. He stopped at the end of the bridge and lifted his shirt, showing that he had nothing, but making provoking gestures like comeon, whadda ya gonna do? And you know what? At that moment I thought about picking him up by his greasy rat scuff and dangling him over the charging river and its concrete bed to teach him a lesson. I was so full of pent up anger at all of the sh#$%% we’ve had to deal with in this trip, so burned with disillusionment and rage, so ready to snap his neck over the idignity of his actions that I scared myself.
I knew he didn’t have anything; my wallet was beneath a huge plastic bag of Clare’s plastic dinosaurs, and my hand had found my camera immediately after I swung around. But I didn’t care. I knew if anything was gone it wouldn’t be him who had it, it would be the boy furthest away, the little one who could run the fastest. But I didn’t care. I wanted to strike the provoking kid so that his friends learned a lesson too. I yelled at him: next time, you little bastard, I’m calling the police! And to that he lifted his shirt again, indignant this time, and made a gesture like go ahead, see what they do. And I didn’t care. I knew they would do nothing. As it is in Italy. That’s probably why my reflex to dangle the little bugger over certain death was so strong. And still is so strong. I feel vulnerable. Helpless. Adrift. And open to any devious hand rifling through my pockets and my identity.
posted by Tom Dowling and Lisa Dowling | 10:24 AM
1 Comments:
What's messenger style ? bag carrying that is .... Don't want to do that when or if i'm there.
Aunt J
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