Compromise, Abandon

The afternoon Sun shone ahead, forcing Jo's eyes downward. As he walked forward, the sun’s heat imbuing into his hair, he stepped upon several bobbing shadows. He looked up. A crowd of his peers clamored excitedly about a table. Beneath the clamor he could make out faint chirps. Stretching his neck above, he saw fuzzes of yellow and brown, and twinkling beads of eyes. Quail chicks. The man came around every once in a while, selling cute baby chicks of all kinds. They only cost a couple won, and today, he had some extra change.

The quail fit snugly between his palms. It chirped endearingly every couple steps. He looked fondly upon it the ten minutes home. It seemed to be comfortable and content in his hands. The sight eased him as well. But as he neared the front gates of his towering apartment complex, its shadow loomed over him, blocking the sun and washing dread over him. Realizations sunk his stomach. His mom would come home soon.

What would she think about the quail?

The fear held him in a chokehold and stripped his friend away. Scanning the perimeters, he searched for an answer. The communal dumpster, where all the apartments’ trash chutes led to, caught his eye. The chute was used to dispose of unwanted objects. If he peeled an apple, or unwrapped candy, or ate chicken—the unwanted peels, wraps, and bones went into the chute. The quail was unwanted. He placed it into the dumpster; it sunk a little into the trash. It let out a couple chirps and flailed its wings. The yellow specks flashed as it shook off brown muck. He looked upon it. It was cute. But his mom’s wrath was scary. He didn’t like punishments. The quail was unwanted. He then unlocked the gate and walked up to his residence on the fifth floor. Every couple of steps, he thought he heard chirping. But no beady eyes twinkled up, and his palms were empty. He walked into the apartment alone.

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He walked out of Apartment 327-502 with a delightful energy. He mounted his worn and faded bike and rode through countless, monotone bricks until a clearing presented itself. From there, he locked his bike to a rack, and, key in hand, began the five-minute journey to the arcade. On the way, he spotted a ditch that sloped down into a storm grate. Examining the crudeness of the ditch and the insides of the drain, he lost his footing. He managed to catch his fall but not his key. The key, instead, flew from his hand, and, in cruel irony, locked itself away beneath the grate. He looked down, but the dark did not permit his eyes to pursue the key. After standing there for a moment, he carried on, with a diminished attitude.

His mood was lifted as he entered the small building. The arcade was on the basement level. He walked into the elevators excitedly with other kids with jingling pockets. As the elevator doors opened, the arcade seemed to highlight itself to him. Flashing lights, red and yellow, plus muffled sounds, clicks and clacks, streamed out of the arcade and grew faint as they approached him. He rushed inside. The screens pulsed in the dark. Coins shimmered and chinked into machines. Kids his age ran around; others stood at machines, sweat dripping and fingers mashing. His pocket change transported him from the wider world and into blissful ignorance. Jumping from machine to machine, he matched blocks in Tetris, shot down aliens in Galaga, and avoided barrels in Donkey Kong. Finally, as kids channeled out and coins vanished, he shambled away.

He walked five minutes, satisfied, until the inflated shadow of his bike under the evening sun came upon his feet. He stood there, staring blankly at the bike just as he had stared at the storm grate. Without the key, there was no way to retrieve it. He could go home and ask for help. But that wasn’t guaranteed to work, and he was guaranteed to get scolded. But he loved riding his bike.

He walked into 327-502, no bike in hand. His family never noticed its absence.