The Playground

The Playground

My mother told me not to play on the playground, but I didn’t listen.
It wasn’t fair from the very start, because I was the first one to see it. Before, it had been totally ruined. The swing set was just one A-frame with two suspended chains, one lonely, rusty chain for each swing. Even the seats were broken, and there were only dangling pieces of wood left to cut you if you weren’t careful. Somebody told me that Milan cut his hand trying to break the piece of wood. I didn’t feel sorry for him, because maybe it was people like Milan who broke the swings when they were pretty, clean and new. Apart from the swings, there were also see-saws, but those were for smaller children. Sometimes, if we were very bored, we would go on the highest one and give “burgers” to one another – the person on the side of the ground would jump up quickly, and the person who was on the high end would slam her bum on the board. But then someone demolished those seats too, so the only seats left were those on the smallest see-saw. Sometimes, Branko’s mother would bring her youngest son there and would gently lift him on that see-saw, and he would giggle.
The third thing on the playground was an arch with rungs that we called the bridge. I was always afraid of the bridge because it was taller than me and I was afraid I would fall. When my mother told me to never go to the playground, I think she was also terrified of the bridge.
As a small child, I watched some of the bigger kids walk the bridge. They would first climb up the first several steps with their arms spread to keep their balance, and then they would continue on up to the highest bars and down the other side. I was very little then and usually played in the sand with Keti, or we would sometimes go on the lowest see-saw and give each other burgers. But the playground grew boring. There was nothing apart from the demolished swings, the bridge the bigger kids would climb, and the broken see-saws. With nothing left to do, we stopped going there and took to playing football in the meadow with the boys, or we’d play jump-rope or dodgeball in the street.
Then one morning my mother sent me out to buy some bread. It was still early, so the kids had not come out to play yet. As I walked towards the store, I heard pounding noises coming from the direction of the playground. I thought to myself: someone is breaking the seats – and ran to see who it was. At first I carefully hid behind the corner of a first-floor balcony, in case it was some bully who’d spot me and then pester me. Then I peeked out for a better view.
Next to the big swing frame stood two men wearing blue overalls and faded-out blue caps on their heads. One of them was using a screwdriver to fasten the chains to the upper horizontal rod of the swing, while the other was securing the new sitting board. I didn’t have to hide anymore, so I approached and saw that the boards were light brown, smooth and shiny, as if they had been polished. They were unlike sitting boards on other playgrounds: these were rounded at the sides, new and clean.
I took a look to see if they had also changed the see-saws, and they really had, except for the smallest one where it was still possible to sit, although it was old. The difference between the old and new seats was obvious: the old ones were cracked, grayish, and rotting on the sides, with rusty screws; whereas the screws on the new boards glimmered, the seats seemed to be adjusted for the thighs, there were holes where the legs were supposed to be suspended so that when someone gives you a burger the board would not stab itself into the flesh. I also noticed a strange, strong smell, and only then saw that the bridge was no longer pale-yellow as it used to be, rather it was painted brightly red. There were several hardened drops of red sand on the ground around the bridge, and right next to it stood a bucket of paint with a brush.
“Hey, little girl,” one of the men in blue turned to look at me.
I didn’t say anything, but just looked towards him.
“You live here?” he asked.
I was afraid that he might scold me for something – maybe because I was disturbing them.
“Yes, a little bit down the road, in the block behind this one,” I admitted.
“Alright, fine. Tell the other kids not to touch the frame,” he pointed at the bridge, “we just painted it and it’s still sticky – it’s going to be sticky for another day. Ok?”
I felt proud that someone had given me such a task. I nodded several times and said “Ok, ok”. After that I heard the other man asking the one who had spoken to me: “Are we going to paint this rod?” and pointed at the A-frame; then the first answered “If we start painting all of them we won’t get anywhere”.
I really wanted to know why the smallest of the see-saws had not been changed, so I asked the men.
“Why did the seat on this see-saw stay like this?”
“Ho-ho, you are a curious one!” said one man and looked at the other one. Both smiled crookedly, raising only one side of their lips, “Do you want us to take off the other seats so that you can sit on the old ones? Or do you want to be left without a playground?”
“No, I just – I just wanted to ask…” I blushed and stuttered. I imagined how there might be no playground because of me.
“Go on, tell the other kids and don’t ask too many questions,” said the man squatting on the ground as he tested a screw with his hand to make sure it wasn’t loose.
I felt ashamed, as if I had done something bad. What did I do? – I kept asking myself as I trudged along the grass, my back turned towards the men. They were talking, I think I overheard something about some kind of food. I said to myself, now when I will leave, they will say something bad about me. What? Why? What did I do? I was probably rude, I told myself, but I didn’t mean to be. Then I promised myself that I would complete the task the men gave me – I would tell all the kids in the neighborhood not to climb the bridge because it has been freshly painted, and if they did, they would stain their clothes. I first decided to go to Moni’s.
I rang the doorbell and it seemed there was no one there. Moni was still not tall enough to reach the peephole, so this is why there was a chain. She would open up the door slightly, holding it by the chain, she would look and see who was there, and usually would say “wait”, although I was always afraid she would close the door on me and not open it again like she had done once before. I thought about that while I waited for her to open the door, because I knew she was home and her parents were probably at work.

AuthorRumena Bužarovska
2018-08-21T17:23:13+00:00 August 6th, 2006|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 49|0 Comments