Welcome to The Blue Route!

The Block

By: Rory Meagher

The block we lived on didn’t have any trees. Across the street there was the cemetery, where my mom took me to pray when I was bad. She said it gave me perspective. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. My dad left before I was born. My mom was my best friend, and when she was gone I was alone in the house.

My neighbor George used to scour the cemetery just for something interesting. I don’t think he ever found anything cool in there. One time I saw him leaving it in the morning, his shoulders hung low, and his face wore exhaustion. I been in there all night and now I know, he said. All the names in there are all the names on the block. Harris, Jones, Sanders, Smith, Cole, Johnson. People here don’t go anywhere, just across the street. Seeing George like that took something out of me.

At age thirteen, George was the big kid on the block, and when he walked by with that step full of swagger, everyone looked at him in awe. Go get George, everyone would always tell me. I think he liked me best, and that’s why they told me to get him. Donnie, you get George! He’s your fucking neighbor! I was also the second oldest at eleven.

We played football in the bank parking lot down the street to the left. There were always a few cars and, of course, the big dumpster, but it was still a football field to us. We weren’t supposed to play there, but the next closest parking lot was all the way down at the grocery store on Howard.

After George scored a touchdown, the manager came out of the bank carrying an expression that scared me. He was a big, bald man, and the old bastard showed his yellow teeth like Timmy’s dog does before it barks. He clutched at the knot of his orange tie, as he began screaming with such vigor that his words were landing on us, weighing down on us.

Like usual, I looked to George to see what to do. With the other boys leaving, the manager turned back to his fort. George flashed him a grin that said fuck you and he reached real far back with the football. Then, he snapped like a catapult. His whole arm swung over his body, bringing his weight forward onto his front leg. The ball spiraled directly at the bank manager making his way up the short steps to the door. I wanted to get the attention of the other boys who were walking away, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that ball, that beautiful ball. If I spoke, it might ruin it – the ball might disappear. Only George and I saw the ball hit the man in the back of the head, slamming the front of his head forward into the bank door. He toppled backwards down the steps. George high-fived me, and we trotted back to our block, not laughing but smiling like we were stoned on something.

I can’t describe the block well. It all looks the same to me: the dirty sidewalks, the scattered trash, the rusted gutters, the baby crying from 13, the sleeping guy on the porch of 11, the big, white van in front of 15. Nothing ever changes. But after the football game, something did. My mom went to the grocery store like usual, but she never came back.

I walked over to George’s porch, and my stomach burned. It had gotten dark. He was slouched on the red and white lawn chair, tapping his feet to the music that no one heard. I sat down on the rocking chair and told him that my mom didn’t come back. He sat straight up.

How long has she been gone, he asked. It was hard to see his face. Sitting opposite him in the dark, it reminded me of a confessional.

She left two hours ago, I said.

Let’s go fucking check it out. He stood up.

Alright, but do you have any food?

Uh, let me check, wait here. He jumped through his open doorway, and ran through his house. I could hear the cupboards banging, and my stomach growled at the sound. He came back out with a half-used roll of crackers. This is all I got, he said.

I thanked him, and we began our journey. We walked side by side in the center of the street. I removed one cracker at a time from the cylinder-shaped bag, took it to my mouth, and demolished it. I did this like breathing.

We turned left to cut across the bank parking lot. The one light post threw a dim orange over the vacant lot, occupied only by the green dumpster in the back left corner. We walked diagonally through it, as I munched my last cracker. I dropped the empty cracker bag and listened to it whimper. I could hear something else too. It was feet hitting the asphalt behind us, and then thwaps hitting more rapidly. I turned back and saw the manager running after us. He must’ve been hiding behind the dumpster. George looked too, and when he saw it, he slapped my back. Run, he said. Then, he shouted it. Run! He kept his hand on my back, pushing me ahead of him. I could feel him making me faster.

The man was screaming at us. His footsteps were louder, closer. Then, George stopped pushing me. The man had tackled him. I slowed down and looked back. Just fucking go, he shouted from the scuffle. The man tried to wrestle George into submission, but George kept throwing punches. Get outta here, he said again. And, I took off. Partly because I was scared, partly because I wanted to listen to him, wanted to believe that he’d be fine, but mostly because, more than anything, I wanted to find my mom.

I turned left down the alley behind the bank. I sprinted to the end of it. Fuck, I thought, why did I leave George? I stopped before the intersection, as a car was coming down the road perpendicular to mine. I could still go back to George. The car swerved from side to side, then veered violently off the road. It went onto the sidewalk and through a street sign. It smashed into the building on the corner across from me, breaking brick. I ran over to the car, whose door opened and spilled out a middle-aged man. He tumbled gracelessly onto his back and stared at me, as blood swam from his forehead over his face. I could smell the alcohol.

Are you okay, I asked. He moaned something. I looked around. There was no one, nothing but a dark street. I looked back at the man. He was transfixed on something in the distance. A peacefulness swept over him. He stopped panting, and calmly closed his eyes.

I remembered George. I never should have left him. I could go back and get him, and he would know what to do. I ran. I thought about how guilty I looked running away from a dead man, and I ran faster. I sprinted down the alley and whizzed around the corner into the bank parking lot. I stopped. The parking lot was empty. I put my hands on my knees and caught my breath. This was not good at all. I walked around the lot looking for something, anything. I stopped in the center.

There was nothing to do but head back. Maybe George and my mom would be waiting for me at home. I would walk back and they’d be sitting on the porch laughing, playing cards by the candlelight. My mom loved to do that with me. We’d play ‘go fish’ till midnight sometimes. She would try to teach me gin or rummy, but I never liked those. ‘Go fish’ was too simple for her, but I loved it for that. And I loved her for playing it anyway.

I was back at the block, and I gave it a quick survey before going the rest of the way. Darkness covered the row houses. There were no lights on anywhere. I walked faster to get through the shadows and back home. I didn’t stop at George’s house because I hoped he’d be on my porch with my mom. But, I could feel the darkness of his house as I passed it. I could feel the emptiness, and I tried to ignore it. A few paces more, and I was in front of my house. It didn’t make sense. It looked the same as George’s house. Maybe they were playing a trick on me, but something crept into my mind. I heard a car pull up behind me. I turned around. There were two cops getting out of their cruiser, and they had bad news. This was the day something changed. But I could see these men believed that nothing had changed.

Rory Meagher is a sophomore at Susquehanna University. He is a Creative Writing major, and a member of FUSE (Forum for Undergraduate Student Editors) and the men's lacrosse team. He is from Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he attended Allentown Central Catholic High School (class of '08). He is the youngest of six, raised by Fran and Molly Meagher.


	The Block By: Rory Meagher The block we lived on didn’t have any trees. Across the street there was the cemetery, where my mom took me to pray when I was bad. She said it gave me perspective. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. My dad left before I was born. My mom was my best friend, and when she was gone I was alone in the house. My neighbor George used to scour the cemetery just for something interesting. I don’t think he ever found anything cool in there. One time I saw him leaving it in the morning, his shoulders hung low, and his face wore exhaustion. I been in there all night and now I know, he said. All the names in there are all the names on the block. Harris, Jones, Sanders, Smith, Cole, Johnson. People here don’t go anywhere, just across the street. Seeing George like that took something out of me. At age thirteen, George was the big kid on the block, and when he walked by with that step full of swagger, everyone looked at him in awe. Go get George, everyone would always tell me. I think he liked me best, and that’s why they told me to get him. Donnie, you get George! He’s your fucking neighbor! I was also the second oldest at eleven. We played football in the bank parking lot down the street to the left. There were always a few cars and, of course, the big dumpster, but it was still a football field to us. We weren’t supposed to play there, but the next closest parking lot was all the way down at the grocery store on Howard. After George scored a touchdown, the manager came out of the bank carrying an expression that scared me. He was a big, bald man, and the old bastard showed his yellow teeth like Timmy’s dog does before it barks. He clutched at the knot of his orange tie, as he began screaming with such vigor that his words were landing on us, weighing down on us. Like usual, I looked to George to see what to do. With the other boys leaving, the manager turned back to his fort. George flashed him a grin that said fuck you and he reached real far back with the football. Then, he snapped like a catapult. His whole arm swung over his body, bringing his weight forward onto his front leg. The ball spiraled directly at the bank manager making his way up the short steps to the door. I wanted to get the attention of the other boys who were walking away, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that ball, that beautiful ball. If I spoke, it might ruin it – the ball might disappear. Only George and I saw the ball hit the man in the back of the head, slamming the front of his head forward into the bank door. He toppled backwards down the steps. George high-fived me, and we trotted back to our block, not laughing but smiling like we were stoned on something. I can’t describe the block well. It all looks the same to me: the dirty sidewalks, the scattered trash, the rusted gutters, the baby crying from 13, the sleeping guy on the porch of 11, the big, white van in front of 15. Nothing ever changes. But after the football game, something did. My mom went to the grocery store like usual, but she never came back. I walked over to George’s porch, and my stomach burned. It had gotten dark. He was slouched on the red and white lawn chair, tapping his feet to the music that no one heard. I sat down on the rocking chair and told him that my mom didn’t come back. He sat straight up. How long has she been gone, he asked. It was hard to see his face. Sitting opposite him in the dark, it reminded me of a confessional. She left two hours ago, I said. Let’s go fucking check it out. He stood up. Alright, but do you have any food? Uh, let me check, wait here. He jumped through his open doorway, and ran through his house. I could hear the cupboards banging, and my stomach growled at the sound. He came back out with a half-used roll of crackers. This is all I got, he said. I thanked him, and we began our journey. We walked side by side in the center of the street. I removed one cracker at a time from the cylinder-shaped bag, took it to my mouth, and demolished it. I did this like breathing. We turned left to cut across the bank parking lot. The one light post threw a dim orange over the vacant lot, occupied only by the green dumpster in the back left corner. We walked diagonally through it, as I munched my last cracker. I dropped the empty cracker bag and listened to it whimper. I could hear something else too. It was feet hitting the asphalt behind us, and then thwaps hitting more rapidly. I turned back and saw the manager running after us. He must’ve been hiding behind the dumpster. George looked too, and when he saw it, he slapped my back. Run, he said. Then, he shouted it. Run! He kept his hand on my back, pushing me ahead of him. I could feel him making me faster. The man was screaming at us. His footsteps were louder, closer. Then, George stopped pushing me. The man had tackled him. I slowed down and looked back. Just fucking go, he shouted from the scuffle. The man tried to wrestle George into submission, but George kept throwing punches. Get outta here, he said again. And, I took off. Partly because I was scared, partly because I wanted to listen to him, wanted to believe that he’d be fine, but mostly because, more than anything, I wanted to find my mom. I turned left down the alley behind the bank. I sprinted to the end of it. Fuck, I thought, why did I leave George? I stopped before the intersection, as a car was coming down the road perpendicular to mine. I could still go back to George. The car swerved from side to side, then veered violently off the road. It went onto the sidewalk and through a street sign. It smashed into the building on the corner across from me, breaking brick. I ran over to the car, whose door opened and spilled out a middle-aged man. He tumbled gracelessly onto his back and stared at me, as blood swam from his forehead over his face. I could smell the alcohol. Are you okay, I asked. He moaned something. I looked around. There was no one, nothing but a dark street. I looked back at the man. He was transfixed on something in the distance. A peacefulness swept over him. He stopped panting, and calmly closed his eyes. I remembered George. I never should have left him. I could go back and get him, and he would know what to do. I ran. I thought about how guilty I looked running away from a dead man, and I ran faster. I sprinted down the alley and whizzed around the corner into the bank parking lot. I stopped. The parking lot was empty. I put my hands on my knees and caught my breath. This was not good at all. I walked around the lot looking for something, anything. I stopped in the center. There was nothing to do but head back. Maybe George and my mom would be waiting for me at home. I would walk back and they’d be sitting on the porch laughing, playing cards by the candlelight. My mom loved to do that with me. We’d play ‘go fish’ till midnight sometimes. She would try to teach me gin or rummy, but I never liked those. ‘Go fish’ was too simple for her, but I loved it for that. And I loved her for playing it anyway. I was back at the block, and I gave it a quick survey before going the rest of the way. Darkness covered the row houses. There were no lights on anywhere. I walked faster to get through the shadows and back home. I didn’t stop at George’s house because I hoped he’d be on my porch with my mom. But, I could feel the darkness of his house as I passed it. I could feel the emptiness, and I tried to ignore it. A few paces more, and I was in front of my house. It didn’t make sense. It looked the same as George’s house. Maybe they were playing a trick on me, but something crept into my mind. I heard a car pull up behind me. I turned around. There were two cops getting out of their cruiser, and they had bad news. This was the day something changed. But I could see these men believed that nothing had changed. Rory Meagher is a sophomore at Susquehanna University. He is a Creative Writing major, and a member of FUSE (Forum for Undergraduate Student Editors) and the men's lacrosse team. He is from Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he attended Allentown Central Catholic High School (class of '08). He is the youngest of six, raised by Fran and Molly Meagher.