My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie ‎I never realized how ashamed I might be to admit my favorite color until I found myself in a room full of stiff suits and pressed collars. It was all too stifling, as stifling as the starch must have been against their throats, their briefcases all lined up in a pitiful row alongside their matching swivel chairs. They had called me in for one reason: Property. The credit card processing company had planned to expand their venue across the landscape nestled beside the 580 freeway, past their asphalt parking lots and down the street that grew ever close to the large depot stores and gas stations. Only one problem: My little publishing house took up the adjacent corner, close to the spot where they wished to establish their new warehouse extension. It was a modest little place, with seven employees at a time. I was responsible for the publication of various nonfictional and biographical pieces, many revolving around the film industry and behind-the-scenes looks

In the little steel nest lay three small boys, the barbed wire around them threatening to scrape against their exposed toes. They were all blond, though the heavy mud and brush threatened to tarnish the gold bouncing on their heads as the cold winds blew around the debris. One was clinging to what appeared to be the remains of a stuffed bear. I reached over the wire to touch one boy on the shoulder. He didn't move.