David Perez
Writing Seminar
Period 6
April 23, 2013 One of the wooden poles keeping the garage stable had graffiti on it. It was scribbled in black marker, similar to the tagging on the walls. The room was cluttered with black garbage bags and tall wooden boards leaning against the wall. One of the bags was force-fed plastic water bottles; you could see one of them sticking out through the hole it somehow punctured. Under it was a see-through container with clothes displaying a black layer of duct tape on its side. The stereo system on the desk played old school rap as the guy talked to me about his life when he and his family came to the states in the eighties. All the white kids wouldn’t let him and his cousins skateboard in the park. I went through all that shit he said in his Salvadorian accent. He pulled up his saggy blue jeans and offered me a seat next to some guy. They were gathered around on nervous folding chairs. The chair next to me wanted to break, while the overweight gentlemen blew out a thick cloud of cancer. He fixed his glasses and positioned back into his daze. His breath was laced with something fizzy. The other guy next to him was picking scabs off his face. There was a small backpack beside him filled with sick pleasure. Aye be cool my dad’s coming said the Salvadorian. His eyes looked different. He put his toys away and told him something in Spanish. One of the corners of the room had on another layer of spider web. You could barely see the corner now. The guy next to me put
