Frogs

Three white thugs are playing leap frog on the sidewalk in front of my house. It is very late, nearly four in the morning. Throwing on my most intimidating robe, I wander out onto the porch. One of the thugs stares impishly at the two engaged in the game. The one in the black backward baseball hat expertly jumps over the one in the oversized basketball jersey. The one watching grabs his crotch and says, “Oh, man, you fucking rocked that one.” Then he hops up and down and says, very rapidly, “I wanna play! I wanna play! I wanna play!”

“Hey!” I shout from the porch, pulling my robe tightly around my neck. “Can you guys keep it down? I’m trying to sleep.”

The two playing the game continue to leap over one another. The third wheel hikes up his pants and glides over to the porch. “Hey, motherfucker,” he says. “Wanna come down and play some fuckin leap frog with us?”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Hey motherfucker I din’t say you had a fuckin choice.”

“Just keep it down,” I say.

But he is already coming up the walk, approaching me. It doesn’t look so good. “C’mon man, don’ be such a fuckin honkey motherfucker. Me and my homies got us a good game goin, dawg. ‘Sides, if ya don’t, I’m gonna bust yer ass.” He brandishes a shiny gun, held in one of his oversize pants pockets. I guess I don’t really have much of a choice. The other two have leaped nearly to the end of the sidewalk, giggling wildly with each leap and shouting “Fuck!” a whole lot. “Name’s G-spot,” the one in front of me says, grabbing my arm and pushing me down to the sidewalk. I shake my arm away from him.

“You don’t have to grab me,” I say.

“Now get down, motherfucker. I’m gonna fuckin go first.”

I loosen my robe and crouch down on the sidewalk. It occurs to me that I’ve never played leap frog before. What if I screw up and accidentally land on the punk, G-spot?

“Here I fuckin go!” he shouts and leaps over me. The crotch of his pants hits me in the back of the head, thrusting me forward onto the sidewalk.

I stand up, angry. I want to kick him in the back of the head but I’m not wearing any shoes and he has a gun. He’s crouched down, waiting for me to leap. “You almost broke my nose,” I say.

“Don’t be such a fuckin pussy. Come on!”

I rear back on my haunches and attempt to leap over him. My robe gets all tangled and I land on G-spot, rolling off and sprawling half on the street and half on the sidewalk. He lays face down, twitching. The other two thugs come running. “Fuck, dawg, what happened!” Baseball Hat shouts.

I straighten my robe and gesture down at the fallen youth.

“He fuckin killed G-spot!” Basketball Jersey says. “That’s some fucked up shit, dawg!”

It’s possible I did kill him. Luckily, the thugs are distracted by an ice cream truck coming down the road, playing its haunting tune at top volume. I think it’s “Fur Elise” but I can’t tell because it’s so distorted. The ice cream truck, spotting the thugs, comes to a screeching halt. The driver leans out and vomits. “Hey!” he shouts. “Hey! Anybody want any ice cream?” He gets out of the truck, staggering around, falling into the side of it, vomits again, and makes his way to the back doors.

“Aw, fuck, man,” Baseball Hat says, bending his knees and waving his arms in the air. “He’s fuckin wasted.”

“Hey, dawg,” Basketball Jersey says to me. “You got any ho tickets?”

I put my hands in the pockets of my robe. Since I don’t know what he’s talking about, I pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Hey, dawg, I’m talkin to you. You got any green?”

“Money?” I say.

“Fuck yeah.”

“Not on me.”

“C’mon. You get us some cream we’ll forget all about G-spot.”

“I didn’t do anything anyway!”

“The fuck you didn’t. He fuckin sucked at leap frog but you were the one took him down.”

“He almost broke my nose!”

“You ain’t the one that’s dead, motherfucker.”

The ice cream man throws up the door at the back of the truck, grabs various ice cream products and throws them at the thugs before passing out. The thugs gather up the ice cream bars and stuff them in their pockets. “Shit man,” Baseball Hat says, “Let’s take this motherfucker for a ride.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and Basketball Jersey crosses over to the passenger side.

“What are you going to do about...” I begin.

“G-spot?”

“Yeah.”

“Leave him. I guess it serves him right. He’s your responsibility now. Sucks though.”

I look down at the sad youth sprawled on the sidewalk. The two thugs speed away in the ice cream truck, the back doors flapping open and closed. I think about dragging him inside or calling someone. Then I think better of it. Best just to go inside and pretend this never happened. Maybe, if anyone finds him, they’ll just write it off to some sort of gang violence. I go back inside and, exhausted from the leap frogging, fall quickly asleep. When I wake up the house is filled with the pulsing rhythm of rap music. I’m not surprised when I go downstairs and find G-spot in the kitchen, dancing some ridiculous dance and eating a bowl of cereal. The kitchen smells like marijuana, sweat and cheap beer. My soul hurts. I sit at the table and massage my throbbing temples. I feel very white and very old and very snobbish. G-spot’s gun sits on the counter, apparently it impedes his dancing, and I stare at it, wondering how I’m going to get him out of the house.