you aint got no creative writing fool
“Merry Christmas buddy,” my dad uttered through a cloud of pipe tobacco as he reached across his desk dropping a present before me. The Leonardo Ninja Turtles costume I had asked for three months prior no doubt. He had saved the best for last like he always does.
I stared in awe down at the package, back at my father who stood over me with a highly pleased look on his face, and back down again to the package as visions of jump kicks and back flips cluttered my mind. Everyone on the block had asked for a ninja turtles costume and I had already received phone confirmation from Jimmy Vasquez that everything was going as planned; Jimmy opened his Michelangelo costume last night on Christmas eve while Bryan West and his brother Stephen woke up this morning to Donatello and Rafael costumes tucked under their tree. Stephen acquired the latter because we all agreed that he, like Rafael, sucks the most. Bryan’s parents even threw in the extra cash to pick up an authentic Ninja Turtles staff for Bryan and a set of Kitanas for Stephen. Jimmy told me that after some debate Bryan convinced his brother to trade with him on the argument that kitanas are dumb and a staff can hurt without killing, which Stephen would like because he was a wuss and cried when people would even act like they were dying. Bryan’s genius amazed me as much as his brother’s stupidity and wussiness saddened me. We would have had someone a lot cooler to play Rafael if only more kids lived on our street. We settled for Stephen.
“Well open it son. We got to eat Christmas dinner sometime and I was hoping it would be today.”
Not giving the wrapping a second longer to stale in the air I ripped through it sending its adorning sparkling holly bush leaves, trumpets, and little snare drums high into the air behind me floating back to the ground. Having removed all the wrapping I clutched to a black leather case that read “Samsonite” on a bronze plate in the center. A bit perplexed, I lifted it high over my head shaking it back and forth to feel the weight of an authentic Ninja Turtles Leonadro costume moving around inside. Nothing. Sitting the case back down on my father’s desk, I unsnapped the buckles on the side and opened it.
“It’s a mistake,” I thought to myself.
“It’s a brief case!” Shouted my dad. “Merry Christmas!”
He was right. A briefcase. A black exterior, poop brown interior, with pouches and penholder, Samsonite briefcase. I searched the pockets for a note that would read something like “got ya, Santa left you something in the garage,” or even “sorry, the costume is still in the mail,” but no, nothing.
“It was my first briefcase and I wanted to pass it along to you now that I think you are old enough.” With a slap on my back my father walked out of the room to help my mother cut the turkey.
I felt that hurt in the back of my throat that I got sometimes when my mom would come home from he grocery store with frosted wheat instead of fruit-loops. I am a ten-year-old boy. I do ten-year-old boy things. You know, backyard baseball, watching Saturday morning cartoons, throwing stuff at girls that I liked, eating PBJs and drinking kool-aid, not tax-write-ups, not business mergers, nothing that would require a freaking briefcase.
I sat there amazed muttering to myself for at least a whole half-hour, “A briefcase, a freaking briefcase, Samsonite, I hate briefcases. Stupid ugly briefcase. What are my friends going to say when I show up to fight Shredder and his footmen with a briefcase”
“Son, dinner is ready,” my father said to me disrupting my rants from the doorway. “And uh, I think Santa told me he left you something in your mom’s closet."
I stared in awe down at the package, back at my father who stood over me with a highly pleased look on his face, and back down again to the package as visions of jump kicks and back flips cluttered my mind. Everyone on the block had asked for a ninja turtles costume and I had already received phone confirmation from Jimmy Vasquez that everything was going as planned; Jimmy opened his Michelangelo costume last night on Christmas eve while Bryan West and his brother Stephen woke up this morning to Donatello and Rafael costumes tucked under their tree. Stephen acquired the latter because we all agreed that he, like Rafael, sucks the most. Bryan’s parents even threw in the extra cash to pick up an authentic Ninja Turtles staff for Bryan and a set of Kitanas for Stephen. Jimmy told me that after some debate Bryan convinced his brother to trade with him on the argument that kitanas are dumb and a staff can hurt without killing, which Stephen would like because he was a wuss and cried when people would even act like they were dying. Bryan’s genius amazed me as much as his brother’s stupidity and wussiness saddened me. We would have had someone a lot cooler to play Rafael if only more kids lived on our street. We settled for Stephen.
“Well open it son. We got to eat Christmas dinner sometime and I was hoping it would be today.”
Not giving the wrapping a second longer to stale in the air I ripped through it sending its adorning sparkling holly bush leaves, trumpets, and little snare drums high into the air behind me floating back to the ground. Having removed all the wrapping I clutched to a black leather case that read “Samsonite” on a bronze plate in the center. A bit perplexed, I lifted it high over my head shaking it back and forth to feel the weight of an authentic Ninja Turtles Leonadro costume moving around inside. Nothing. Sitting the case back down on my father’s desk, I unsnapped the buckles on the side and opened it.
“It’s a mistake,” I thought to myself.
“It’s a brief case!” Shouted my dad. “Merry Christmas!”
He was right. A briefcase. A black exterior, poop brown interior, with pouches and penholder, Samsonite briefcase. I searched the pockets for a note that would read something like “got ya, Santa left you something in the garage,” or even “sorry, the costume is still in the mail,” but no, nothing.
“It was my first briefcase and I wanted to pass it along to you now that I think you are old enough.” With a slap on my back my father walked out of the room to help my mother cut the turkey.
I felt that hurt in the back of my throat that I got sometimes when my mom would come home from he grocery store with frosted wheat instead of fruit-loops. I am a ten-year-old boy. I do ten-year-old boy things. You know, backyard baseball, watching Saturday morning cartoons, throwing stuff at girls that I liked, eating PBJs and drinking kool-aid, not tax-write-ups, not business mergers, nothing that would require a freaking briefcase.
I sat there amazed muttering to myself for at least a whole half-hour, “A briefcase, a freaking briefcase, Samsonite, I hate briefcases. Stupid ugly briefcase. What are my friends going to say when I show up to fight Shredder and his footmen with a briefcase”
“Son, dinner is ready,” my father said to me disrupting my rants from the doorway. “And uh, I think Santa told me he left you something in your mom’s closet."