The Fifth Racetrack

They weren't normal jeans. They were slightly discolored on the left pocket, but I didn't mind, I could still jump off the block the same way. The block was made of concrete, but instead of little rocks in it, there were lids from yogurt containers. I'm not sure why, but I called it mine. I drew pictures on it occasionally with chalk, but sometimes with other materials. On one occasion, my Great Grandmother gave me a large bucket of chalk. It was yellow in color and the label said "chalk". She also gave me a pair of earmuffs, but they were black. Fluffy, and black. I never wore them. It was Christmas and there was a clothing drive at the elementary school my brother went to and there was a Christmas tree you could hang mittens, hats, earmuffs and such on. I hung the earmuffs. I'm sure someone had to have enjoyed them. I've never been an earmuffs kind of person. I wanted to give them to the homeless guy on the corner by Big Bear, but my mother said no. So, I went to Save-a-lot and purchased him some food, even Little Mermaid gummies. I would have liked them if I were him.

We were to be aboard the ship for 3 weeks. The main point of our voyage was to find eleven of them, but we knew long before the trip had reached its midpoint that we wouldn't succeed. That isn't why we were all there though. We marveled as to how some people can detect cyanide by scent and some cannot. It didn't matter though, it was the display of brotherhood that ensued that rang out in our hearts forever.

It started as just a normal, completely regular day. We awoke, viewed the beautiful icebergs out the window, and then we decided to take a hike. The forest was gorgeous! We'd never seen such beautiful foliage and wildlife. It was sunny, beautiful, and warm, the perfect summer weather for a mid-afternoon hike, or maybe for something else. Anyways, we were excited. Just as I was tightening the hood to my parka, I caught a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye. I shook my head, thinking I was seeing things. We kept hiking on, our feet making pleasant crunching noises on the forest floor. We stopped to take a picture of a flower only native to this part of South America, but the crunching of the twigs on the forest floor did not. Heavy footsteps were behind us, slowly closing in on us. We didn't notice.

It didn't matter where we went--he followed us. He was so sure that he was the coolest thing since sliced bread, and no one told him otherwise. It isn't like he would have ever listened. Criticism meant nothing to him. He was Caucasian in nationality, but he sometimes wore a do-rag. It looked utterly disgusting, but he didn't realize this. He was a master at making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. If anyone could win an award for making them, it was him. Occasionally he would add an extra element to his sandwich, like peanut butter and rice krispies, but most days it was normal. He could make them faster than anyone I'd seen. He never talked to us about it though. We were much too busy to listen, besides, we had a new, more directive mission.

We were told that we were not to cross the black line. They showed us the correct procedure and showed us to our equipment. I chose a medium weight black one. My best friend, Henry chose a green one. We paid careful attention to the instructions, and tried our best. Sadly, my score did not top 100. Henry got 117, and he had to keep telling me about it. Afterwards, we went to the neighborhood pizza shop and ordered a pizza.

The discussions thus forth had absolutely nothing to do with all the important issues we knew needed to be covered. It was touchy; we danced around the subject for a while, but eventually settled on a topic of fried eggs, and my neighbor Ed. He was a professional body builder. Every morning he jogged down the street, his sweaty, hairless muscled arms and legs pulsing to the rhythm of his movement. His tanned, perfectly toned body had given me many a boner. I often questioned my sexuality because of this man. It just seemed as though he was the epitome of male beauty and sensuality. Day after day I had gone over to his house at any excuse: to ask him fitness tips, just to talk, to invite him to a sports game, and even the good old cup of sugar line. He'd be pumping iron in his spandex, his muscles rippling under the weight of the barbells. I fought with all my might against my testosterone.