From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
The streetlamps flicker to life over the Bronx, casting long, sharp shadows of the new elevated tracks that slice across the orange sky. I’m leaning against the brickwork, watching a rich fellow fumble with his new Autochrome plate—gadzooks, the way those real colors pop on glass makes my old sketches look like charcoal dust. Ma is inside shouting over the mechanical rattle of that new electric washing machine, her knuckles finally free of the scrub board. I’m just trying to ignore her to hum "School Days" while fiddling with this weird, smooth Bakelite toggle on my radio set, wondering if life will ever feel as polished as that strange new plastic.