Lost Boys

The very first day in my new Florida apartment was a long one- it'd been a short move down the street and most of it was done in tiny bursts of effort down three flights of stairs, into a Celica, over four speedbumps and in the door- but it was a hot summer day and I'd taken a moment to pant facedown on the couch with my front door open. Which, naturally, is when the screaming started...

Piercing the moist air of the afternoon like an icepick through an eardrum, a child's voice strangled out along with a muffled scraping and pounding noise. My door was open so I ran outside into the street which separates the two sides of our apartment complex buildings, trying to track the sound- it was the building directly across from mine. "MOOOOOMMMM!!! MOOOOOMMMMMMM!!! OH MY GOD MY MOM'S DEAD!!!"

A small cocoa-skinned boy came spilling down the stairs and into the light. He had a full-to bursting backpack on his back, and his red-rimmed eyes were full of tears. "What's wrong? What happened?!?" "MY MOM'S DEAD I CAN'T FIND MY MOM!!!" Other student-age kids were in the street at this point, laughing and pointing at the commotion. "Where do you live?" I asked the child, trying to get his attention as he literally raced in circles. It would've been comedic if it wasn't so soul-rending to hear him bawl.

He was too distraught to answer, and I couldn't discern which door he'd come from. "Who knows this boy?" I demand of the young passers-by. Two of them stop jeering long enough to acknowledge. I put on my Adult Voice and told them "You and you- show me where he lives." As they start to march up the stairs the terrorized child had come from, the boy suddenly charges ahead of us, still screaming. Upon reaching the top level, he begins pounding and clawing like an animal against a locked door. This explains the noises I'd heard earlier- the sound of his little body as he hurled it against the metal door and sank to the floor. "MOM!! MOOOOMMM!!!!" He's sobbing. "SHE'S DEAD!!!"

I try the latch, preparing myself to find a body, but I cannot get it to budge. Finally, FINALLY, other neighbors emerge cautiously, poking their heads into the hallway. "Who knows this boy?" I demand from them. They blink back at me like cattle. "Who knows this boy's mother?"I try, using my very best Adult Voice. Simple shrugs are all I receive- but there's no time to be angry- my little panic-attack poster child is practically hanging over the balcony, screaming for his dead/missing(?) mother. "Whoa whoa whoa" I say, grabbing the loop of his backpack before he spills over the edge.

I pull him off the railing, at which point he looks at me, inhales deeply, and screams with renewed terror "STRANGER DANGER!!!" Then he's off like a shot, down the stairs. I snap at the gawking children to follow me and we race after him in a parade of histrionics. He's in the street again- in traffic. I hem him to one side, arms spread wide like I'm herding a pigeon. "OK, dude, calm down- I'm sure your mom is fine. Do you have a key to your apartment?" "Hunh?" "Do. You. Have. A. Key?" "Noooooo!!! She's supposed to BE THERE- SHE'S NEVER NOT BEEN THERE!!!" "OK, I have a cell phone- let's call your mom, OK? What's your mom's number?" He doesn't know it.

He doesn't have a key and he doesn't know his mom's cell number.
None of his neighbors can identify him.
This child is at least 6.

I've decided by this point that if his mom IS alive, I want to punch her in the face for leaving her son in this dangerously vulnerable position. But I have to worry about that later, because he's now running down the street. "Hey hey hey! You see the office? See the office where the grown-ups work? We're going to go there AS A GROUP (I identify to the others) and get some police to help us find your mom. I'm sure she's fine, OK? The police will help us find her but we have to wait where it's safe."

"MOOOOOMMMM!" He's screaming again, but his voice is breaking as his spirit gives out- he is absolutely, unequivocally convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that his mom is dead. He whimpers to me, "I don't want to die..."

At this exact moment, a car comes flying around the corner. I position myself instinctively between the child and the car, but it slows and stops in front of us. "What's going on?" The woman driving asks. "MOM!!!" The little boy shoves by me and loses his shit into the car window, crying uncontrollably. "I thought you were deeeeead," he manages through wracking, ragged breaths. "I was running late," she shrugs at me.

She doesn't seem phased or particularly moved. I'm fuming.

"He was running into the street," I point out. What I want to say is, "You're a horrible mother! How could you DO THIS to your child?!? You let the TV teach him to yell 'Stranger Danger' but he doesn't know your cell number?!?" ...but then I see how tired she looks.
I see her older model body in her older model car and she looks so drained. She looks like she's consistently had the weight of the world on her shoulders and has simply checked out.
There is no wedding ring on the hand which half-assedly comforts her son, and I suspect this woman has not been given a lot of help, if any, raising him. There's nothing I can say or do, applying knuckles to her face will not make a difference.

I take my White Privilege and go home. So I let it go- I must pick my battles wisely, and this is one I cannot win. Today. But you better believe I made cookies and marched them over to my new neighbor's Los Angeles apartment the week I moved in. Just in case.