Geta, Angely Mercado [simple ebook reader .txt] 📗

other side and give me a call. The least the bastard could have done this whole time was send me a text, an email, a carrier pigeon, something. Anything would have comforted me at that point. I imagined how he’d call me, laughing and telling me he was in another city, another state, another country, maybe even in another time zone. In another life.

I grabbed a sweatshirt and traded my Adidas flip flips for Chino’s wooden sandals. My footsteps echoed in the hallway as I walked down the stairs. While wandering the streets I ended up walking past a park where Chino and I had hung out frequently during our free days last summer. It was here where Chino had explained to me that his wooden sandals were called “geta” and how it was part of traditional Japanese footwear.

“It’s like when you and every other Dominican in New York wear Adidas sandals with socks,” he had laughed.

“Sir, please refrain from mocking the noble traditional garb of my people,” I had retorted while, pushing up imaginary scholarly glasses.

But tonight, the park was dark and only the occasional jogger or teenage couple could be spotted. I passed the dumpsters which were clustered around to the park’s back fence. The street lights extended their shadows, making it seem as if a group of monsters were holding a conference.

“Where’s Chino?” I asked them.

My voice cracked around the ever present lump in my throat and I wanted to punch myself for talking to the dumpsters. I tried to change my train of thought. I thought about how one day I’d get a real job, maybe even a degree in something practical. The ones that ended in a job that would make it mandatory for me to wear a tie most days. I’d travel and maybe, I’d end up in Japan.

My footsteps click-clacked through the empty air as I walked away from the dumpsters. I hoped that one day my feet would click-clack all the way to Japan. Perhaps I’d go to Tokyo. Chino mentioned once that his mother had grown up in Tokyo. Maybe I’d bump into Chino as he walked down a street with a child sitting on his shoulders and a young lady on his arm. I remember how he had told me that he liked the name Akira, so I suppose this fabled child should be christened Akira.

“Akira Watanabe,” I whispered as if it was a prayer.

I click-clacked past a church and crossed myself out of habit. It was past 9 p.m. but a mass was still going on. Years ago, my mother had dedicated a mass to my father after he passed away. I wasn’t sure if Chino would have wanted me to dedicate a mass to him, so I stared at the saints carved into the church’s pillar in search of guidance. They offered none.

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” I told them.

I prayed the saints would protect me. I wonder if they actually listened. I couldn’t blame them or God for ignoring me completely, but I’d hate Him for the rest of my life if I turned on the news one day and saw that someone had found the remains of Chino’s body in the East River. A breeze picked up as I made my way up the block and away from the church. I couldn’t help but wonder if God heard my footsteps as they lead me farther and farther away from this corner of the world called East New York.

word count: 2,500


Imprint

Text: Angely Mercado
Editing: Patrick Sean Lee aka Felixthecat, Chireau White
Publication Date: 07-18-2012

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