The sound of hard plastic wheels grating across the gritty sidewalk came faint at first and grew louder with each passing second. Henry had had enough. It took effort for him to push out of the recliner, which aggravated him further.
“Fucking kids,” he said, peering out the living room window at what used to be a neighborhood of quiet, elderly folks. As time passed, so did his neighbors. All the houses in the area were single story wartime bungalows sporting small, well-kept front lawns and large, private back ones. They were one- or two-bedroom and rarely housed children in the past. He couldn’t fathom how the young families buying up the area—or worse, the rich landlords buying the cheap homes and renting them to low-income families—could fit three to five children in these houses. Or why this generation seemed to enjoy screaming at the top of their lungs, having private conversations on full blast over their cell phones, and didn’t make the children play at the park instead of on the streets. None of it sat well with his retirement plan, but he couldn’t afford to move elsewhere.
The crunching returned up the block. He yanked the window open and waited. Face against the screen, he watched the boy’s leg kicking up and back, pressing the scooter to go faster. The moment the kid lined up with his driveway, Henry yelled, “Tell your mother to buy you rubber wheels!” He slammed the window down, punctuating his point.