jejune

along a tired stretch of venice, two young boys, not more than four or five years old, maybe twins, even, were being tugged along the sidewalk by their mother, their heads turning to stare at the world passing by, more interested in the auto tint shop and gas station than wherever they were heading. i marveled at the innocence of my own childhood, at the memory of climbing onto the school bus after the peach blossom festival in fresno with my classmates, having dutifully recited our christmas song or poem or whatever our teachers had plugged into our minds. i must have taken a seat near the rear, because i remember hearing excited chattering and giggles and turning to see a handful of boys gesturing and craning at the back windows. someone whispered in my ear, there's a condom on the ground. i joined the group and peered through the scratched glass, my eyes roving the asphalt for what i knew only as one of those mystical, recondite items associated with sex. where? i asked frantically, afraid the chaperones might conclude their headcount at any moment and signal to the driver to hit the road. there! someone said, pointing gleefully. my heart sank as i swept the pavement, back and forth, registering nothing except a greenish clump of shiny plastic resembling a deflated balloon. the engine roared and grayish smoke hazed my view of the parking lot as the bus pulled away. i laughed along with the other boys, feigning delight in our bawdy discovery. but i knew i had missed it, that i had missed my one chance to see this mysterious object, to finally be in on the joke.