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Writing-Art/Storytelling
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I looked at the clock again. 7:45. I was too worried to watch television anymore. I went to my brother's room. He was playing on his computer, too caught up in his alien shooting game to even notice I had opened the door. I closed it and went to my room right across from it. I sat down on the bed across the room, but right in front of the door. My older sister, Angie, used to have my brother's room, with her bed across from the door as well. When we were younger, we would sit on the beds in our rooms, throwing a football across the hallway to each other. Sometimes we rolled a basketball and sometimes we used a Frisbee, but we always managed to hit mom or dad, nevertheless. Angie is upstate now at Cornell; she moved away about a year after dad's death. I lay halfway on the bed, head on the pillow, feet on the ground. Waiting to hear a key in the door to turn. Then I remember how I waited for dad to come home the same way. How one night there was a knock at the door, instead of a key turning. After another hour, the key in the door finally turned. I got up and ran to the door. |
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"Hi, sweetie" |
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Everyday there's a new store being built in Harlem or at least planned. There was a protest right before Mart 125 closed. Mart 125 was the beginning of other community stores being forced out of business fast. There had to be space for Old navy, Starbucks, and all of the other big corporate stores. With all of these well-established businesses coming into Harlem, the neighborhood looked, in a sense, more established than it had before. However, underneath the skin of the "new, affluent Harlem" pumped a less flashy lifeline full of poverty and pain. The neighborhood was becoming more expensive to maintain, as money flowed out of the area's residents and into the hands of the rich. Months passed and more stores were built. Each new corporate store signaled a rent hike of $100 or more for other stores. Finally, the cost outweighed the profits. Stores that have been there for years, even decades, were left in the dust as Harlem expanded. For a while, I thought my mom's store was immune to the changes. Everyone loved her store. Mom knew half of our customers by name. I did too if they came in on Saturday, because I only worked there on Saturdays. When the rent got too high there was a protest and even fundraisers to keep the store going. Everyone was helpful, but everyone knew in the back of their minds that we couldn't go on forever. In six months, on the day of our 8th anniversary, was the last day anybody could buy books from Good Reads. We held out final party in the store on March 23rd. Five dozen people dropped by that day, way more than expected. An outpouring of community support filled the store that day. Mr. Johnson, who always yelled at us for playing in front of his restaurant beside us, Vegetarian Haven, came in and bought five books. Sam, our neighbor who changed his name to Kofi in order to sound more African, but changed it back a couple of years ago, bought two books on Africa. Tony, who we used to describe as the only Italian in Harlem, bought three books that day. Even Roger, the man who wore two watches at a time and the same brown suit everyday, but who we never saw spend a dollar, bought a couple of books that day. All of our books were sold by two o' clock. Our shelves, once holding hundreds of books, were left empty and dusty on their final day. |
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