New Jersey RoyalsMature

A story of how love conquers all, even in the face of hypocrisy.

Just like there are separations of everything; gender, race, etc, in this local park there is too a divide between rich and poor. A subconscious representation of the whole entire world; whether you like it or not. We are not all equals. There’s always one type of person you believe you are above and therefore can treat like shit on your shoes. And don’t you dare deny it; there’s always that one person you feel you have the right to look down upon and sneer at, just because they are who they are


     [are you who you say you are]


and you don’t like it. Goddamn hypocrites, always preaching about ‘equal rights’ this and ‘we are all the same’ that. Bull-fucking-shit. We are all different! We are individuals! We have the right to express who we are! We shall not conform! HOWEVER if that means superiority and false magnanimousness we do not want it. We want a world where everyone is who he or she is and nobody can tell them otherwise!

     This local park, if you agree with me, will make you sick to the pit of your dirty soul. The rich people of this New Jersey town take their children to the north side; the poor people are left with the unclean, unkempt and neglected south side. They do not socialise, they do not even wish to look at one another (the rich don’t look because they feel disgusted, the poor don’t look because they feel disgusting). Some children, at the invisible (save a line some opinionated teenagers carved into the dirt, just a few inches long but oh so powerful [that’s what Mommy thinks about the pool boy) but uncrossable border line, they look at each other in mild curiosity, just like children should. Most of the time, they stare for a while then run back to Mommy/the nanny (whom Daddy is fucking, cheating on his secretary, what a scandal), depending on which side they play at. But some brave little children defy the genre their birth has burdened/graced them with, and make friends. At least, they try.


     “What’s your name?” The little girl with the shiny red ringlets and the eyes like chunks of emerald stares intently at the little boy ‘across the divide’.

     “I’m G-G-Gerard. A-a-a-and you?” The little boy, with eyes of bloody turquoise and the devil’s black curls, has always had a problem with his stammer. The words just don’t come fast enough.

     “Beverly. How come you talk funny?” She blinks her mild little eyes.


     [foh a rich guhl she sho has a poh guhl name]


     “My moh-moh-mommy says my m-mouth is s-s-slower than my h-head.”

     “Oh, okay.” Just like that, the little girl accepts who this new person in her life is, faults and all.

     “How oh-oh-old are y-you?”

     “6 and one quarter. You?”

     “I’m oh-older. Sih-sih-six and a hah-half.”

The little girl giggles, a cherubic sound to the little boy’s ears. To him, she is just the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on, even prettier than his beloved mother or his baby sister, born a few months ago. He feels immediately the same feelings he has for those only other women in his life – love. And love that predates puberty, as you may or may not know, is a pure, lovely, gentle entity.

     “Beverly! Beverly, come back from there! Get away from there! You don’t know what is hanging around there!” The little girl’s mother, reluctantly spending a day with her daughter, away from her desk, fetches her daughter, ripping her away from her new friend. “Come along, now, Beverly, Mommy needs to get back to work.” Her voice, empty of affection, is expressed through gritted, porcelain-veneered teeth.

     The little girl, used to being rejected and being second best to her mother’s job, sighs knowingly and waved goodbye to the little boy with the hand not in a vice-like, forceful grip. The little boy, sad and suddenly very lonely, waves goodbye in return, his lower lip ever so slightly consuming his upper lip in experienced disappointment.


     The little girl’s mother waits until they are in the car to erupt.

     “What on earth did you think you were doing? You are not to go down to that end of the park ever again, do you hear me?” Her mother, a moderately good-looking woman not unlike Sarah Palin, is throwing her hands everywhere in anger. The little girl is mildly afraid but knows, even at her young age, she is just melodramatic, over-reacting, etc. The rant will be over soon, her voice will lower a few octaves, her flushed cheeks will pale again and her mind will become preoccupied with work again. Beverly pretends to listen, giving her mother eye contact and nodding in all the right places, but really all on her mind is that little stammering boy.

The End

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