Cardboard Warriors
We did battle with the brush. Whole cities of ant hills and mole holes and snake dens laid to waste, mowing down wide swaths of dry mustard in the summer sun. Our battle cries were heard from the road that divided the canyon in two, and the freeway that separated us from them.
We drew out a plan of attack in the sand. We’d stoop in the tall brush and disappear from view, our whispered words carried lightly on the wind. I sat down on my vehicle, the Toshiba, my brother on his Sony. Knees up, facing the enemy, battle lines drawn, helmets on. Glints of shiny metal flashed from freeway cars whooshing by. They would not see us coming. A surprise attack. I gave the signal and we charged the hillside, our yells emanating from within the hill’s belly, birds and rabbits taking flight, the shiny metal boxes speeding away in terror.
Faster and faster we slid. I held on tight to the front of the sled, sometimes pulling left to avoid an enemy mine. I’d look over to my brother, pulling ahead by force of corporal velocity. I spun out at the bottom, facing uphill, surveying the destruction, the vanquished, the fallen. I reached out to my comrade in arms and grinned with self-satisfaction.
Our weapons: the discarded husks of home-delivered computers, televisions, and stereos we’d find in their neighborhoods. We’d tramp up the hillside dragging the flattened pieces of corrugated cardboard behind us. We were masters of recycling. Mom and dad ate sandwiches at a picnic bench at the bottom, smiling at their two cardboard warriors.
Copyright 8/99 Jennifer Chung.
All rights reserved.
