Whaddya Say?

It lasts a lifetime.

I don't know if he remembered any of it. (Photo by author.)

There was a little boy whose father took him for a ride one day. The train. The station. The subway. The Chicago “L”. Howard Street. A snack shop on a corner. A hot dog with all the trimmings. An afternoon that lasted a lifetime. Dad's gone of course. I don't know if he remembered any of it. I don't know if I ever told him how much it meant. It's been ages, but the last time I looked, it was still there. The snack shop on the corner. And they still sold hot dogs to little boys. And to the men they have become.

There is a little boy whose dad can't take him for a ride. Not today or any other. Dad didn't survive the gunshot wound to the chest. This little boy lives with his mom and his brother and sister in one room. Mom makes the equivalent of forty dollars a week. As if that wasn't enough, this little boy reads poorly, far below grade level. His aunts and uncles and cousins call him “stupid”. They tell him he'll be the street sweeper someday. He goes around town telling people that.

This other little boy—he hasn't got a chance. Where the hell is Superman when you need him? Turns out he's on a T-shirt in the closet, and that's where he'll stay.

This other little boy needs shoes and clothes and someone to listen when he cries and someone to look up to and someone who wants him around. I'll give him that the best I can. I'll give him something else too.

“See that man? He's called the motorman. He drives the train. Hey! Let's stand up in front so we can look out the window. Whaddya say?”

Where is Superman when you need him? (Photo by author.)