Andre sat up on his bike seat in the back alley of his house and flicked the tassel he’d attached to his handlebar. The drink in his other hand warm and untouched. His friends George and Zane waited for him, drinks open and half drunk. They had asked what was wrong with him, why he wasn’t drinking, celebrating like a big shot.
Andre had his eyes closed, his fingers running down the fine, silken tassel. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to move too fast or breathe too much. Keep my eyes closed. Cause right now, I’m rich. I’m sitting in my Ferrari, in a driveway with a fountain in the middle, sipping Champaign from one of those fine crystals mom always wanted. I’m rich and sitting and thinking that I have all of this cause I was the only one to graduate in my whole family. And none of my lazy-ass friends can say that.” He smiled and chanced a quick peek from one eye.
“Man, look at you! You’re sitting on a triple hand-me-down bike, in an alley that smells like cat piss and burned rubber. All you got is a warm pop cause we couldn’t find anyone to score us some booze…you ain’t rich. You’re just like us. Fool.” They talked dirt at him but slapped him on the back like a brother.
Andre left his bike, opened his pop, and followed his friends through the alley. He didn’t have a car yet, but he swore he’d hang that tassel off of the rearview mirror on whatever he could afford, even if it wasn’t a Ferrari…just yet.
Postcard Stories Podcast – An Author Reading.