Grapefruit
Written in Emberville’s class on How to do Crap Writing
“Grapefruit. Fresh grapefruit. Come buy your fresh grapefruit.” The boy’s voice grew hoarse in the day’s scorching heat. His soiled, sweaty shirt hung loosely on an emaciated frame. The irony of his rumbling stomach was not lost on him; that he hawked fresh fruit for passers-by while starvation lingered at his own doorstep every day.
Beneath his shirt, seared in angry stripes seared across his back, were the remnants of the morning’s beatings. Miguel, or “Papi”, as his fellow street urchins called their minder, had been in a foul, Tequila-infused mood, the boy’s body offering a venue to exercise his wrath. Tomorrow it would be another boy, but always only the boys. Miguel never struck the girls. No, they were too valuable a commodity for the farm workers coming off the fields in search of flesh’s solace only their fresh faces and perky bodies could offer.
“Grapefruit. Fresh Grapefruit.” “I’ll take one”, said a bent over old lady as she dug into her withered purse for a peso or two. “My, you are nothing by a shadow, young man. Doesn’t anyone feed you?” “No, Senora. I am only ever allowed to sell the fruit, never eat it. I would be punished.” Hearing this her eyes widened. “And who would do such a thing to you, young man. I would like to meet this person and show him what a good beating looks like. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Madre Mia, it breaks my heart. I can’t bear looking at you this way. Leave the grapefruit and come home with me. My own are long gone and I welcome the company. You will be beaten no more.”
For a moment, the boy considered her offer. How tempting it would be. He knew Miguel would find him and beat him within a centimeter of his life if he left his grapefruit station. Miguel, one of the other kids or someone else was always watching. Miguel’s reach was never far.
“No, ma’am, I cannot. And you cannot invite me for if I were to leave with you, I would be beaten and so would you. It is impossible.”
She weighed his response for a moment. Indeed, she was old. Twenty years earlier, she could protect herself, but not now. Her heart sank, knowing the boy’s fate would be worse than hers this day. It saddened her, but she knew he was right. Handing him two pesos, she nodded before hobbling away, her cane carving its path in a line of dust.
“Grapefruit. Come get your fresh grapefruit.” The boy’s stomach rumbled, his lips parched. He would welcome a beating now if only to distract him for hunger. Another day in the town square.
This raw and striking story was written by Tyler in our Emberville class on How to do Crap Writing. Tell us, have you ever done crap writing before when you thought it was crap, but it was actually beautiful?
