The following is a rewrite of a previously written poem for a Creative Nonfiction class. Unlike the fiction of the poem, the following is true.

It was our parents’ rule: don’t run after fire trucks. “You could fall behind them and get hurt,” they warned. But when you’re ten years old, and you live in a six-story cold brown brick apartment building in the South Bronx’s Patterson Projects, your options for fun are limited.

Playing hide-and-seek in the open stairwells of your building. Pitching pennies against the stoop in front of 2595 Third Avenue. Charging the imaginary soldier’s fort with toy rifles on the patch of brown and sort of green grass next door.

You’re always dreaming of something more exciting.

For some of us, the real adventure was crossing Third Avenue with its constant stream of buses, trucks, and cars headed toward the Third Avenue Bridge or turning west at 138th Street toward the Madison Avenue Bridge. Both would take them into Manhattan’s Harlem and then south into East Harlem, El Barrio.

Once across Third Avenue, we’d stake our claim to a couple of concrete squares on the sidewalk next to the Auto Parts store to play Boxball against their wall.

Or play Johnny on the Pony, a cruel game where the main goal is to see how many of your friends you can jump over while they are lined up against the wall, bent over head to ass. Sound like fun? Not if you’re the first pony (usually me). Your back can only support so many bodies crashing down on it.

When we wanted to test fate, we’d move into the street to play Skelsies with bottle caps pushed around on chalk-drawn boxes or Stickball, where part of the fun is dodging cars driving up and down 140th Street.

The parent rule quickly dissolved into the clouds of that mild-weathered June Saturday when three wailing red fire trucks barreled down Third Avenue past 2595. We put our street games on hold and embarked on a more thrilling adventure: chasing fire trucks.

We ran screaming, excitedly down Third Avenue toward 138th Street just in time to see the fire trucks, their sirens piercing the air, turn toward the Madison Avenue Bridge, getting further and further away.

We stopped, frustration boiling up inside of us.

“Anthony, you slowing us down. You too fat,” Skippy declared.

“Yo momma’s fat,” was my usual response to insults about my weight.

“Look,” Mickey shouted as he pointed, “The fire trucks stopped at the bridge.”

There’s something mysterious and exciting about exploring a new part of the South Bronx that you call home at ten years old. It didn’t even cross our minds that we were in unfamiliar territory with industrial warehouses and truck repair garages on both sides of 138th Street. It was the furthest we had ever been without our mothers knowing where we were.

We lost the fire trucks. They were no longer at the entrance to the bridge when we arrived. That should have been a sign that we should have stopped, turned around, and headed back home. We didn’t.

Determined, Mickey, Skippy, and I crossed the Madison Avenue Bridge, heading toward El Barrio. We found ourselves caught in endless circles, running a gauntlet of gangs, winos, and junkies, desperately searching for a way back to the South Bronx.

We were scared and depressed as we turned down a side street full of burned-out buildings and old cars baking under the early evening sun, and then we saw the sign: Willis Avenue Bridge—the Bronx.

Four hours after we started our lost adventure, the three of us, tired, dirty, and hungry, cried with relief as we walked down 140th Street into the arms of our crying mothers. Through our falling tears, we promised we would never chase fire trucks again.

My mother took my hand, soothing me as she led me to our fifth-floor apartment, telling me that I looked dirty and should take a bath. She filled the bathtub with warm water and promised me a late meal of Arroz con Pollo. My hunger was that obvious.

She closed the shower curtain and the bathroom door, leaving me to soak in the water rising over my dirty, tired body.

Suddenly, I heard the bathroom door crash open. The shower curtain was almost ripped from its metal bar. I nearly jumped out of my skin and the bathtub. There stood my mother with an angry scowl, a belt in her hand.