Through the Eyes of Children

Little swirls of dust puffed out of the couch cushion as Sam’s feet slammed down into it. Up and down he jumped, the dust looking like the exhaust from an old train engine. He kept his rhythm steady, all the while looking out of the oval window in the garage door. Every time he came to the height of his jump he could see the neighbors house next door. It wasn’t an interesting house, but it gave the four year old something to do on those excruciatingly boring Saturdays. It also drove his mother absolutely crazy.

Sam took a moment to turn around in a circle on the couch as he jumped, looking at the garage. It wasn’t like most garages he had seen. It was nothing like his uncle Marty’s garage. There were no tools or gas cans; no dirt or grease. Their garage just looked like another part of their house. It was just another room with a couch, chairs, end tables, and lamps. There was even a big television with rabbit ear antennas extruding from the top up against the wall. The garage was simply a duplication of their living room, except for the sheet metal garage door that acted as one of the walls. The fact was that they actually spent more time in the garage than in their actual living room.

At that very moment his brother Ren was curled up in the love seat next to the couch. Ren was several years older than Sam, but not much bigger in size. He was always readjusting his glasses and normally always reading a book. Sam’s sister, Tracy, and mother were running around the room dusting and wiping things down, trying to keep the room clean. Sam wasn’t sure why they put so much time and energy into cleaning the room. The couch alone looked and smelled old to him. It definitely wasn’t a smell that the orange scented furniture polish they were using was going to cover up. He honestly didn’t feel it was something to fuss over in the first place. They did though, constantly running around, cleaning frantically.

Sam turned back around and continued to jump up and down, looking at the neighbors house. The constant strain of jumping was quickly losing its appeal and Sam was almost ready to quit when he saw the vans pull up. The two of them, one white and one black, swerved into the neighbors gravel driveway throwing rocks in every direction. Sam had never seen the vans before and he knew they didn’t belong to his neighbors. He stopped jumping and climbed to stand of the back of the couch to get a better view.

The vans had pulled in fast and men dressed in black, head to toe, piled out. Sam’s eyes were glued instantly to the guns they carried in their hands. He had seen guns before, his father had a few, but he didn’t have guns like these. The guns these men carried were like the guns people had on television. They were the kind of guns that were used in war movies. Sam looked behind the vans and noticed two police cars had pulled in as well. He continued to peer out of the window, fascinated by what was going on.

“Bubba,” Sam said, turning to stare at his brother, “there are army men outside. Army men and ninjas.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Ren mumbled, shaking his head, looking back down at his book.

“Momma,” Sam said, “come look at them.”

His mother ignored him, not looking up from her dusting. Sam gave up trying to get their attention and turned back to the window to see if anything else had happened. The men were now rushing around the house, squashing the flowers their neighbor had just recently planted the week before. Sam watched as the men near the front door slammed into it, causing the wooden door to splinter and crack loudly. It had been so loud that Sam and his family had heard it in the garage. Sam’s sister came up behind him and peered out the other window.

Oh, god mom,” Tracy turned to look at their mother, “the police are going after Mr. Tyson.”

Sam continued to watch, almost as if it were a television show, as Mr. Tyson rushed out the back door carrying a gun similar to the one’s his father had. The men in the black uniforms began to shout and wave frantically at Mr. Tyson, but he didn’t seem to hear them.

“Momma,” Sam yelled excitedly, “Mr. Tyson’s got a big gun.”

Tracy let out a scream and jumped back away from the window. All the while, Mr. Tyson waved his gun, looking around wildly. He was yelling at the men, but Sam couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. Sam suddenly wished he had been playing in the yard when the men had pulled up. That way he would have been able to hear everything.

“Sam,” his mother yelled, “get down from there.”

At that very moment, the police fired at Mr. Tyson. Sam watched as the bullets pierced the man’s chest, staining his button shirt a reddish black. Sam stood as rigid as a board as the shots rang loudly around the garage. His family watched as the boy fell back onto the couch as if he had been shot, giggling uncontrollable like children sometimes do.