The Step Game

I follow in my father's great wake, skip for giant step. I've made it into a bit of a game, I imagine his six foot frame leaving a temporary indentation in the macadamized road and then plant my bare nine year old foot in the center of the impression. It keeps me amused as I accompany my father traveling from one palatial door to the next, gathering garbage so that we can relish the joy of frisking the waste in search of the seemingly worthless. Since it's an hour or so before lunch, I delight in the subtle savor of sizzling spices and herbs besiege my senses. The aromas that trigger desire intermingle with the stench of putrid festering foods of yesterday, which then delivered me the same momentous elation.
We arrive at the home of an aged spinster. She opens the door, hands my father the bleak bag that speaks of things dead and gives me a piece of candy with a wide gleeful smile etched into her wrinkled face. I take it with a grin and a slight joy brushes past me and dissolves her. As the transient dances with the permanent, my father reminds me of the inveterate liars we all are. The ones with argent and gold have been self-deluded into thinking the destitute are fortunate for they possess happiness. And the ones entrenched in penury are convinced that they are paying due penance for crimes committed in lives they remember not and may never have lived. Having received such declamations on several occasions, I lose track of father's words as I trace his path onto the next mahogany door.
We reach the threshold of a curious family that has an array of rumours incessantly pestering it- there always is a family that is preyed upon in a neighbourhood such as this where incongruity is looked at with askance and time is plenteous. Being a Sunday, the father, the crux of all rumours, opens the door. The man is undoubtedly formidable- towering over my father with shoulder built to support leaden worlds and thick eyebrows converging at the center, his dour look is an awesome sight. He eyes us and then hollers to his wife to get the garbage, a moment later his son comes up to him and tugs his shirt. But the boy spots me gazing at his red toy car and all thoughts of pater fade into abyss. He shows me the mesmerizing piece of plastic. It is unquestionably brand new- the wheels aren't frayed. It has several logos stamped on it and a faceless man seated in it. The scarlet paint gleams in the sun, taunting me. I grab the car and before the bliss seeps in and the boy leaks a tear, my father steals it from my fragile grasp and hands it over the austere man with a mumbled apology. His flinty features are slightly softened by a smile but his visage is still one that could make a man flinch. But for now, both men are cringing on the inside as they are stuck in one of those moments for which awkward is an euphemistic adjective. Ah! finally the wife arrives and hands over the bag of future prospects to my father. Both men breathe a silent sigh and we once again set off on our way.
All the way back home I am reprimanded for my ludicrous act and yet again my grip on father's words is loosened sometime after the first period for now I have added a new element to my game. Hereafter it is against the rules for me to step on leaves making it much harder considering the ample supply of withered once greens.

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