Original Sin
There was a time when Jerk didn’t know hate in his heart.
Don’t laugh. Lots of people laugh when Jerk says that. They sneer. But Jerk’s studied human nature. Jerk’s read Rousseau and Camus. What have they read? He’s cashed them out. The Star? Hello!? The—rolls eyes—New York Times and The Washington Post? Jerk’s just happy to meet someone who reads at all, honest.
So little Jerk’s an innocent, right? The sweetest, purest boy you ever wanted to meet. A smile filled with joy. Even if he’d seen Norma bounce cans off Tiny’s head after she caught him with a girlfriend, there was still this sweet innocence, a radiance to the boy.
It took true villainy to destroy it.
It was the August before Jerk turned 10. Tiny treated The News like the albatross it was, slung around his neck by his father like his father before him. But Norma loved the Coast and took Jerk there every summer for a week while Tiny tended The News with the hired help.
One of Jerk’s favorite things about the Coast was fried dough. Such a simple treat—literally just a chunk of dough stretched out, thrown in hot oil, and covered in powdered sugar or dipped in marinara. Jerk could go either way. It was a candidate for the manna of the gods. Especially in little Jerk’s eyes.
It was afternoon—one-thirty, maybe two. Norma had dragged Jerk to her favorite flea market, promising him lunch before they headed back to the motel for a siesta, resting up for her usual nightly ritual: the pier’s buffet and casino, while Jerk haunted the carnival rides and arcades, lingering until they rolled up the streets for families at eleven.
They spotted a prime street-side parking space, and Jerk jumped out to hold it while Norma pulled around. Drivers tried to nose in, but Jerk stood firm. What were they going to do, hit a kid?
The sky smelled burnt. That gray afternoon haze you get on the East Coast, before the sun begins to set in the west and the wind turns, the land exhaling heat and stink back into the sea. Gulls circled above, their cries full of menace, but they stayed aloft.
It was Jerk’s favorite spot for fried dough, right by the beach. He got his with extra powdered sugar—messy, but little Jerk didn’t care. He was starving. Norma got a slice of cheese pizza, like always. They shared his coke. They always did. Norma’s idea.
They sat outside. Jerk had just taken his first bite when Norma sighed.
“You didn’t grab me any napkins.”
Jerk jumped up reflexively. He didn’t need another lecture about being raised by wolves.
He took his time chewing that heavenly bite as he ran to get the napkins—a wise call, considering the atrocity he was about to witness.
A single seagull—wings spread—descended from the heavens and snatched Jerk’s fried dough right off the plate. Norma cowered, clutching her pizza, a Jurassic rodent protecting its child from a dinosaur.
“No!” Jerk raced over, but it was too late. He could chase it, sure—but would he have wanted the seagull’s prize if he caught it?
“Buddy, you should have kept an eye on your fried dough.”
Her single slice of pizza was nearly gone. Jerk watched as she tidied up the table, gathering the trash onto her tray. Her ritual. The signal that it was time to go.
Jerk looked at the napkins in his hands. At the sky. At Norma.
“I HATE SEAGULLS!” Jerk screamed, hurling the napkins to the ground.
Heads turned. People stared. Tears welled up and he bolted for the car.
Norma would catch up. She always did.
And that’s why Jerk hates seagulls.