“Step On A Crack”
HEY YOU! Yeah, you! Put some eyes in your feet and watch where you’re going. Jeez. It’s me -- the crack. The one you’re about to step on. No, not a crack – the crack. Not a wisecrack; that’s Sid over in Philly. And definitely not a butt crack. Grow up! Step on me, and you’ll regret it. At least, your mother will.
I’ve been around since they started pouring concrete, and I’ll be here long after you die, so listen up. It'll save your mother some pain and a lot of medical bills. If you think she doesn’t love you now, wait until you step on me! Besides, it’s rude. How would you like it if someone stepped on you?
I know, I’m covered in dirt, dog urine, and I have weeds for hair. You call it filth, I call it camouflage. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Yeah, I know Shakespeare. A few fragments, anyway. Think I haven’t been outside theaters? I love the classics, or at least the parts people talk about. I also like movie theaters—I can teach you bibles of truth. I’ve spent lots of time outside strip joints, too, so watch it. You don’t want your mother to know, do you? Speaking of your mother and strip joints . . . .
Mostly, I like to be outside elementary schools. Love them little kiddies. Don’t even think it – I’m not some kind of perv, just a plain old sidewalk crack. Little kids still believe in me. For God’s sake, NO—if people stop believing in me, I don’t go away. Does concrete go away? You watch too many Disney movies. Get a life. Really – you’re standing here listening to a sidewalk crack. Been off your meds long?
I need to speed this up. Stan from Maintenance is going to be here soon, with his bucket of concrete and his trowel. It’s finally time to fill me in. Seems there’ve been a lot of female spinal injuries lately, and they’ve decided to blame me. If people would just watch where they’re going, I wouldn’t be a problem.
I’ve got to be moving on. You didn’t think they could kill me just by dumping some water, cement, and limestone on me, did you? I’m not the actual crack. It’s more like I inhabit the crack. I’m the essence of crack. No, not that kind, you moron. No wonder your nose is always running. Do you want your mother to know? I didn’t think so.
Do you see what I’m up against? No one understands the real me, and it hurts my cold, hard heart. Sniff, sniff. Not really – I’m no emo crack. If you want that, check out the high school, next to the goth and drama queen cracks. That’s another reason I like elementary schools. The kids are innocent, and relatively normal. They still love their mommies. Not like high school. You should see what they do over there. Those brats actually jump up and down on cracks, hoping to kill their moms. “I hate her so much! She won’t let me get a tattoo! I hope she dies!” I’m always glad to oblige, of course. I have no choice. I’m a sidewalk crack. It’s what I do. It’s all that I do.
Anyway, as the immortal spirit of cracks, when someone fills in my current home, I just move to another. And then another. It actually gets kind of tiring. Find a good neighborhood with lots of families and children, and here comes Maintenance to ruin my happy home. At least Stan is one of the good ones. He does the prep work, and doesn’t just slop some concrete on me and smooth me over. That kind of work lasts all of one winter. Stan has pride. Also, he knows. We’ve had a lot of talks since I first showed up. He’s retiring soon.
Now you know too. So the next time you come to a sidewalk crack, step OVER me, not on me. If you don’t, your mother will pay the price.
Thanks for listening, pal. I’ll see you in front of the park.