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Corner | May 08 2002

It’s late and I’m in bed, remembering things.

My elementary school playground was divided into two sections: the white top and the black top. The school itself was shaped like an L, with the white top occupying the crux of the L, and the black top bordering the white top. This would be easier if I drew it.

Drawing of my schoolyard.

The school had five grades. Only the older kids, fifth graders mostly, ever ventured into the black top. Not all the older kids, but some.

One day during recess, I think while I was in third grade, the most wretched grade of all, I followed the fence to the end of the blacktop, to the corner farthest from the school. This may have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done. It was rumored that certain kids, possessed of a badness beyond comprehension, would slide under the fence here and run to the 7-11. And it may be have been true, for there was sufficient space to slide under.

I have no memory of what I did in that corner. All I can remember—and this may be something I’ve added after the fact—is watching tiny tornados of trash rise off the ground and wondering how the hell I was ever going to get back to the school, which appeared to be far away, almost impossibly far, and receding into the distance.