Mileage Reimbursement
"A dog that doesn't bite when you kick it."
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Puff Puff Pass
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September, 1995
“We’re done with the last patch, Tiny. Come over and check our work,” Jerk yelled over to Tiny by the stairwell bulkhead. Kid had just finished spreading the gravel evenly.
The floating deck’s supports squeaked as Tiny stepped over. Even with the metal footings sturdy enough to hold a dozen drunk socialites back in Big Neil’s heyday, the roof still had just enough give.
Tiny leaned over the railing. “Looks great.” He straightened, hand still on the railing. He wiggled it. “Kid, tighten this.”
There was a distant clang of a metal door slamming that came from the bulkhead’s open doorway. Someone was on the way up.
“Better be Late with my cigar.” Tiny came up to the roof increasingly infrequently, and he’d forgotten to bring one up to smoke. It was a warm and pleasant September evening, the sun turning the western skies the color of maple leaves in Congress Park this time of year.
“Better be Late with our blunt.” Kid turned the screw, then wiggled the railing. “Screw’s stripped. Someone tell the facility manager it needs a bolt and nut.”
“But Jackie’s got the weed.” Jerk made a mental note to grab a bolt and nut later. He pulled the milk crates out from under the deck and slid them onto it before coming around to come up the stairs to set them up as chairs and a small table.
“You called?” Jackie came through the doorway as Tiny stepped aside, moving to lean against the bulkhead. She was a bottle blonde that Jerk didn’t think matched her golden tone. When she smiled her top front tooth had an extra white patch shaped like a heart. Too much fluoride in the water growing up.
Jerk and Jackie exchanged money and weed. “This is from my thesis advisor’s hookup. Said it was from Canada.”
Jerk held it up and examined the baggie. “Enough seeds to start your own grow operation.” The metal door below’s clangs echoed up again. “Late, as usual.”
Kid grabbed the baggie and smelled it. “Smells a lot better than the ditch weed the dealers by the bridge sell.”
“Oh, good, Jackie’s here.” Late leaned on the doorway as he came through, panting from running up the stairs.
“We’re lucky the next ice age isn’t here, waiting for you.” Jerk held out his hand. “You got the blunt? Where’s the beer?”
“Shit, I forgot the beer.” Jerk and Kid groaned. “I’ll go–”
“No, you stay here.” If Late left their sight he’d enter nonlinear time again and they wouldn’t see him again until who knew when. “We’ve got some in the kitchen fridge. Who wants one?” Kid and Tiny raised their hands. Late held up his hand in refusal.
Jackie wistfully watched as Late cut open the blunt to get the extraneous tobacco out. “I’d love to stick around, but I’ve got papers to grade before dinner with Diane.” Jackie was the most domestic of the Squatmates to come along in a while. She turned to Jerk. “Need any help bringing things down?”
With Jackie it only took two trips to get everything back into the maid’s quarters where he kept the maintenance gear. When he returned with beers and a coke for Late a dank odor drifted down along with the tar. Late had constructed the blunt and they’d already begun.
Tiny was leaning against the outside of the bulkhead, and Kid and Late had huge grins on their faces. Jerk looked at Tiny again. He had a bemused expression Jerk hadn’t seen often. Jerk sighed and cracked open Tiny’s can before handing it to him. “You took a hit? Really?” He shot a look at Late and Kid. Kid had a hand over their mouth trying not to laugh while Late stared forward stoically.
“Your mother’s in Providence.” Tiny’s smile was easy, he’d begun his cigar.
“You’re getting a cab?”
Tiny held the smoke in his mouth before exhaling. “I’ll sleep in 401.”
“What’s 401?” Kid asked.
“Guest suite. I clean and dust when I remember.” Jerk had last checked it a couple months ago. It had a bed sturdy enough for Tiny and a girlfriend to do jumping jacks on, but he hadn’t brought anyone up there since Norma’s first oncologist visit five years ago.
Kid handed him the blunt, Jerk inhaled and counted to seven. Exhale. He inhaled again and handed it to Late.
“You ever come up here?” Kid asked them. “I didn’t realize this deck existed.”
“Not much anymore,” Tiny admitted, taking a sip of his beer. “When Jerk was a boy, though…” Tiny sipped again, looking thoughtful. “Had a grill up here. Hauled up a picnic table, one plank at a time, and built it myself. City launches fireworks from a lot up at the Institute.” He motioned to the Institute on the bluffs above downtown.
“The table wobbled a little, but we always got the best view of the fireworks.” Jerk said.
Late passed him the joint, saying “I’m good,” as he exhaled. “I miss the grill up here.”
Jerk took a hit, held it, then passed the blunt to Kid. They held up their hand in refusal. He hesitated before turning to Tiny. “Another hit?” Too much of the smoke came out of his nose and he stifled a sneeze.
Tiny held up his hand. “I’m a lightweight, you know that.” Kid snickered. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to carry your ass down the stairs.” Not that anyone could without a crane. He snubbed out the blunt, plenty for a couple hits later.
Kid tilted back their Genny, finished it, then pulled another can from the plastic rings. They stood and leaned against the rail next to Tiny at the bulkhead. Tiny offered them his cigar. Kid accepted, took a puff, and held it for a long moment before exhaling, mimicking Tiny’s slouching pose. “Late, you always lived here? Your parents rented an apartment downstairs?”
“I’m from South. Foundry.” He pointed at Tiny. “Tiny and Norma took me in when my mom died.” He looked at Jerk. “Jerk took me in too.”
Tiny coughed, deep and bassy, then hawked and leaned past kid, spitting over the railing. “Took you in? You were already living in The Squat part-time after you and my idiot son stole that car.”
“Wait, wait—stole a car?” Kid looked at Jerk, then Late, then Tiny, before back to Jerk.
“It wasn’t theft.” Late protested, crossing his arms. “We borrowed it from my mom.”
“Without permission.” Tiny added.
Jerk turned to Kid. “It’s as stupid as it sounds. Let me explain.”
-
Elbow Taps
The News. Early July, 1985.
Door opens, bell rings.
Late stumbled into the store on a blast of summer air, moving with urgency. “Buddy, I’m sorry I’m late!” It was the summer his legs seemed too long for the rest of him—between sophomore and junior year.
“Late, you’re right on time.” Jerk didn’t look up from his comic and flicked his fingers at Tiny. “Pay up.” Tiny sighed and reached for his wallet.
“Late honey, have you eaten anything?” Norma yelled from somewhere behind the deli counter.
“No, Norma.” Jerk knew Late would have been later if he had.
“Let me make you a sandwich.”
“This isn’t going to work, Late.” Jerk paced the great room, staring at the three-inch gap of skin between the top of Late’s socks and the hem of Jerk’s borrowed uniform pants. “Top fits, but these stilts you’re calling legs… she’s gonna know right away.”
“It’s visitation,” Late said, adjusting the cadet ribbons on the borrowed jacket in the standing full-length mirror. “She’ll be on a phone behind glass. Just has to work up close.” He squinted at his reflection, then brushed crumbs off the lapel.
Jerk collapsed into an old Queen Ann armchair—the only other piece of furniture left in the penthouse great room besides the mirror and his boxes of comics and books. “Practice the voice again.”
“Why hello, Sarah. It’s nice to meet you face to face, finally.” Late dropped his tone a half octave, mugging for the mirror. “Think that’ll make her… what did her letter say the picture of me in your uniform did?”
“‘Your new favorite word. ’Squishy.’” Late had become fixated on that line.
“You said that’s good, right?” He turned around. He almost looked the part, if you ignored the fact his face was still smooth as a kid’s.
Jerk pushed up his glasses. “‘Squishy’? Oh yeah.” Jerk checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. “We need to move. Your mom thinks you’re with me?”
“Where else would I be? She’ll go to the bar after work, take a Black and White cab home since I’ll be busy.” Late pulled a key ring from his pocket, twirling it around his finger. “You told Tiny and Norma you’re heading back to my place?”
“They’d be suspicious if I said I was going anywhere else.” Jerk stood, stretched. “OK, going through this one more time.”
“Uniform. Check.” Jerk moved down his mental list. He scanned the room twice looking for his backpack before he found it right next to the chair. He picked it up and rifled through it. “Snacks and cokes. Check.” He’d made sure to pack multiple bags of Late’s favorite salt & vinegar chips.
“Where’s the road atlas?” Late toyed with the medals on his chest nervously. Jerk batted away his hand.
“Here. Check.” Jerk tapped his temple. “Fake ID?”
Late fumbled with his pocket and pulled out a bright green nylon wallet, the Velcro making a tearing noise as he opened it. He fished out the fake ID and held it up. “Check! Here!”
Jerk grabbed it and gave it a fresh look for the first time since they’d picked up in the backroom of a hardware store that never sold very many hammers. Jerk had found them in Tiny’s Rolodex, with the note ‘Document Services.’ Tiny knew a guy for everything, and those guys all knew who Tiny’s son was.
The work was impeccable, it looked authentic. He held it up, comparing the photo to Late’s face. “Late, I don’t care what year your ID says, I wouldn’t sell you cigarettes.” He handed it back.
“I don’t want cigarettes! I want to see my gir–” Jerk glared and Late cut himself off. “I’ll tell them I was a late bloomer!”
“We’re going to prison,” Jerk muttered under his breath before addressing Late. “It better just be you. Let’s go, Private.”
“We gotta do the thing!” Late raised up his elbows, the uniform shirt underneath coming untucked. “Tap elbows! For good luck!” He kept them up, face expectant.
“We’re not eleven anymore,” Jerk said with a resigned sigh. He lifted his elbows and twisted in sync with Late. Left, then right, then left.
Late grinned as they finished. “We’re still best friends.”
-
Taconic State
Despite the snack stockpile, Late insisted on hitting the drive-thru at a burger joint in East Crailo to satisfy his French fry craving.
“One burger, four fries, one chocolate shake, and an orange coke.” The drive-thru speaker’s metal cover rattled as the cashier’s high-pitched voice read Late’s order back like a list of charges. “Anything else?”
“No.” Jerk yelled past Late before he could order any more fries.
“Pull up for your total.” Late took his foot off the brake and the car lurched forward, stalling. “That’s weird.” Late laughed nervously. He turned the key and the car let out a gasp and a smaller lurch.
A pit opened in Jerk’s stomach. “We’re going to prison.” He muttered under his breath.
“Com’on.” Late pumped the gas and turned the key, brow furrowed. The car roared back to life. Late relaxed. Jerk couldn’t.
The cashier could hardly reach out the window. One of their front teeth was growing in, their hat was too big. “Aren’t you a little young to be working drive-thru?” Late said, handing over the payment.
The cashier sneered. “Aren’t you a little young to be driving that Buick?” They handed Late back his change.
“It’s an Oldsmobile!” Jerk yelled unhelpfully past Late.
“I’m a late bloomer!” Late was indignant.
The cashier laughed. “Sure you are.” They passed the order out through the window, drinks first. “My dad owns the franchise, so it’s legal.” Jerk knew how that worked. “Now get out of here before I tell my dad and he calls the cops on you punks.”
They parked behind a row of cars at the supermarket. Camouflage, just in case the cashier changed their mind. Late had eaten two of his four fries by the time Jerk finished his burger.
Jerk stole a fry and bit off the tip. It crunched-fresh out of the fryer. “This wallet…” Jerk grabbed Late’s wallet and turned it over. The bright green was almost offensive to Jerk’s eyes, a flare of immaturity in a situation where Late couldn’t afford to be seen like a kid.
“What’s wrong with my wallet? I’ve had it since 8th grade!” Late had impressive diction with a mouth full of fries.
“It’s a kid’s wallet. No ROTC cadet at Institute’s going to still have this.”
Jerk reached into his pocket and pulled his out. Brown leather. It was last year’s Christmas present, slightly worn with persistent bend to one corner from the way he stuffed it into his pocket.
Jerk began swapping the contents without asking. Late didn’t complain-just kept chewing fries. Neither of them had much: some cash, school IDs, Late’s fake. Jerk moved quickly, until he found the last card tucked behind the rest. Frayed edges. Worn paper. A figure-supposedly Jesus-knelt in prayer beneath a wash of heavenly light.
A prayer card. He’d seen it before-Stephen’s. Late looked away, pretending to care about a Mom yelling at her kids catty-corner to them in the next line of cars.
Jerk slid it into his old wallet, behind Late’s fake ID, and handed the wallet to Late. “This? This is an adult’s wallet.”
When they finished their food, Late turned right out of the supermarket lot onto a stretch of road where two U.S. highways ran concurrently-one heading east, the other south. Both pointed in the right direction. In a few miles, they would split, and they’d follow the one going south to the parkway, twenty miles and one county line away.
The Taconic State Parkway. Two narrow lanes in each direction, a hundred miles of concrete ribbon meandering through the lush emerald hills of Upstate. Jerk dozed, lulled by the rhythm of the tires rolling over the pavement’s joints four times a second. He’d nodded trying to calculate the distance between joints from the beats and the car’s speed.
Then a crack, like a shotgun being fired in a dumpster came from the front driver’s side, coughing a cloud of debris onto the concrete highway.
“Shit!” Late swore as the car collapsed on the corner. The rim dug in with a jolt, the left front anchoring forty-five hundred pounds of Oldsmobile hard into the pavement. The whole chassis twisted, whipping the rear right outward in a violent yaw.
Late instinctively twisted the wheel to the right, forcing the front-end back. He yelled “I’ve got it!” even as the rear whipped left and they were suddenly staring at the trees that ran beside the parkway. The car twisted another 90 degrees and the rear slid on to the grassy shoulder.
The rear wheel caught. The car snapped forward around it. What remained of the rim and tire ripped off, rolling and tumbling into the median as they came to rest pointing, impossibly, in the right direction. The whole car rattled with the engine before it sputtered and died.
Jerk was frozen. Everything was silent before he remembered how to hear again, and his ears rang with the high-pitched whine of a million cicadas. Where the seat belt held his shoulder back felt raw, burned. He’d slammed against the side, hitting his head against the pillar harder than Brother James had ever hit him for mouthing off. He could taste blood. Everything was blurry. Where were his glasses?
Late was shaking his shoulder, yelling something he couldn’t hear over the cicada. He pulled on the door handle, pushing it open and trying to get out, struggling against something. Late was yanking on the seat-belt trying to release the tension enough to press the button.
He fell forward as the belt released, bracing himself against the door as he stumbled out. The world lurched wildly, even when he was still. He fell to his knees, collapsing on all fours. Without warning he retched up rancid orange coke and bits of burger.
He tried to push himself up, righting for a moment, but the world lurched again. He rolled onto his side, thinking “We’re going to prison.” His jaw clenched. His back arched. His brain burned.
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September, 1995
The last of the purple and gold light was fading from the clouds, but the warmth of Indian Summer was lingering.
“I don’t remember much after that.” Jerk rubbed his arms, not looking at anyone. “Lights in my eyes. Being asked what year it was. That stupid collar.” He pulled at his t-shirt collar reflexively and shook his head. “I don’t remember most of that summer.”
“He couldn’t read without getting a headache. Kept forgetting what he was trying to say mid sentence. He’d get so frustrated he’d get angry, or start crying.” Tiny seemed to have been dozing before he spoke up.
“Don’t remember crying.” Jerk got up, rubbing his arms again.
“You said this was stupid. You almost died!” Kid was dazed.
“But I didn’t. And it was.” Jerk shrugged and looked at the fading light in the west. “I’m going to get a flannel. Late can finish from here, he remembers it.” Jerk went downstairs.
“Never been so scared in my life.” Tiny said after the Squat door slammed shut below.
“Jerk says he doesn’t blame me. ‘You didn’t cause it, the tire did.’” Late emulated Jerk’s flat affect perfectly. When he looked at Kid, there was guilt on his face. “I blame me.”
“He doesn’t remember much after that,” Late said, “but I do-every second.”
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Salvage
The Taconic State Parkway. Early July, 1985.
The tire and rim were still tumbling as the Oldsmobile groaned to a stop, engine sputtering and dying.
Jerk strained against his seat-belt–cornered, thrashing, and blind. It was still buckled, but he didn’t understand what was restraining him, clawing at air and the door trying to pull himself out.
“Buddy? Buddy?” Late pulled on Jerk’s seat belt, hitting the button and releasing the latch. Jerk pulled himself out of the car and almost immediately fell to his knees. Late unlatched his own belt and got out. A pickup truck that he’d seen in the northbound lane as they spun out was driving across the median behind them, destination obvious.
Late came around the car as Jerk puked and rolled over. His jaw clenched and eyes rolled into the back of his head, body stiff and jerking. “Shit!” was all Late could say. He fell to his knees, gravel digging in, cradling Jerk’s head so he stopped banging it against the grassy shoulder. He heard the truck skid to a halt and looked up, the passenger door opening before they’d even stopped.
“Daddy, call the staties on the CB, boy’s seizing.” She had the hips of a mother with the hustle to match, hurrying to reach them. “Keep his head and neck still! How hard did he hit it?” She asked as she dropped, sliding next to them.
“I don’t know! I was trying to keep the car on the road.” Jerk stiffened and jerked his head one more time before going limp. “Buddy!” He began sobbing. Jerk didn’t move.
“He’s breathing.” It was the only comfort she could offer at the moment. The man, older, was jogging over. “Daddy?”
“Charlie’s on his way and I told him to call for an ambulance. Said he’ll try to get an ETA before he gets here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His tears were falling on Jerk’s face as he held his head. “Not you too.”
“You boys out joyriding?” It was the older man who was asking. He knelt next to Late, hand on his shoulder.
“I borrowed my mom’s car so I could impress a girl.” A small sob. “He was trying to stop me from being too stupid.” More tears on Jerk’s face. “I’m such an idiot.”
The minutes ticked by reluctantly while they waited for the trooper and ambulance. Late wiped his snot on his shoulder, refusing to let go of Jerk’s head, as if it might fall apart any second. He could smell burned rubber and scorched metal.
The older man introduced himself as Rick, his daughter as Sissy. Rick asked what happened. When Late described trying to correct and making it worse, he nodded. “You acted on instinct. It was just wrong.” He explained. “Learning better’s a problem for tomorrow.”
The trooper–Charlie–cut his siren a half a mile back and rolled up behind Rick’s truck, lights still on. He had ice blue eyes and black hair beginning to salt and pepper. When he began walking over, Rick stood. “Charlie, let me help you set up some flares.”
Late could hear him talking to the trooper, gesturing at the Olds. “Brothers were joyriding, but that blowout wasn’t their fault, look at the rest of those tires. Shouldn’t have passed inspection.” They moved out of earshot laying down the flares.
“Not brothers,” Late said quietly, watching them walk away. “But he takes care of me like mine did.” He looked down and wiped his tears off Jerk’s face. “He doesn’t look mad at me. I wish he was mad at me.”
Sissy put her hand on his arm. “He’ll be real mad when he wakes up, promise.” An ambulance passed them going north, sirens and lights going. It faded, growing louder again a minute later after they’d u-turned.
Jerk groaned at the sound of the siren. “You awake sugar? Can you squeeze my hand?” Sissy asked, slipping her hand in his. Jerk groaned again, squeezing her fingers. She leaned over, whispering to Late. “Oh yeah. Real mad.”
Late wasn’t sure if what came out of him was a sob or a laugh.
“I could be sitting here all day writing you tickets.” Trooper Charlie had pulled Late aside-away from the EMTs, away from everyone. He had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and shifted back and forth on his boots while Late stared at his sneakers.
“Failure to maintain lane. Unsafe speed for road conditions. Bald tires. Unlawful operation.” He let out a short huff, almost a laugh. “And let’s not forget forgery. That one’s more than a ticket.”
“I’m going to prison.” Late muttered to the pavement.
“Not sure prison’s the cure for your flavor of stupid.” Charlie said. He pulled out Jerk’s brown leather wallet and pressed it into Late’s hands. “I didn’t see this.”
Late looked up, startled. Eyes wide. “Thanks,” he breathed.
“I’ve still gotta write you up for something. Failure to maintain lane. Just a fine.” Charlie glanced back toward the Oldsmobile. “Way less than you owe your mom.” He held out the citation. “You boys got lucky. The type of lucky you don’t get to be twice.”
“What about Buddy? Can I go with him?”
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September 1995
Kid stopped Late. “Wait. Wait. Buddy?” They glanced at Tiny, then back at Late. “Jerk’s nickname was Buddy when he was a kid?”
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Buddy
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September, 1995
“I hate that name.” Jerk had been standing in the doorway of the bulkhead, listening to the last bit. “It’s a name you call a dog.”
“You were such a happy kid. Everyone’s friend.” Tiny said, beer empty and his cigar a stub.
“A dog that doesn’t bite when you kick it, Tiny.”
Kid looked at Jerk, bemused. “Buddy.” The word was a puzzle they turned over in their mouth. They smiled. “I kinda like it for you.”
Jerk looked at Kid. “Please. Don’t.” His face and tone were flat, but his eyes looked like he’d just pulled a tack out of his foot. He sighed and reached for the last Genny, sitting down.
“Late got to see me have a second seizure in the ambulance.” Jerk said, cracking the beer open and taking a long sip. “I guess it was a long ride.”
“They didn’t have a CT or an MRI in that whole county.” Tiny was annoyed a decade later. “Forty-five minute ambulance ride to Memorial.”
He grumbled, toying with the extinguished stub of his cigar wishfully.
“And then there was Late’s mother.”
Corning Memorial Hospital. Albany, NY. Early July 1985
“You fat son of a bitch.” Late’s mother was charging across the ER before her cabbie drove away. Her face was Happy Hour red and her target was clear:
Tiny.
“Excuse me?” Tiny stood as she approached. “I’m a son of a bitch?”
“You. Your shitty store.” She had the breath of someone who used Jack and Cokes as mouthwash. “Your creepy son.”
“Mom, Buddy’s not–”
“I’m not losing my living son to your goddamn schemes, Tiny.” She glared at Late. Late hid behind Tiny.
“Marilyn Eileen Early.” Tiny voice was quiet thunder on a Sunday morning. “I carried your husband on my right shoulder to his final resting place.”
Late’s mother look like she’d been splashed in the face with cold water despite the crimson shade. He peeked around Tiny, saved from the bull’s charge.
“Tiny, I’m sorry. It’s just– Your boy–”
“My boy? You mean the kid upstairs getting his brain examined with micro rays?”
Late’s mother let out something that started as a hiccup and ended in a burp. A sour acid note on top of the Jack and Coke aroma. “He reminds me of so much of–”
“Stephen.” Late said, stepping from behind Tiny. “He’s smart and protects me like Stephen did.”
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September 1995
Tiny stopped and looked at Late. Late looked at Jerk. Jerk looked at Kid.
“I wasn’t going to ask.” Kid motioned to Jerk for a sip of Genny. Jerk obliged and Kid took a sip, swishing the can before handing it back.
“You could have asked.” Late tipped back his coke to get the last few drops. “My brother. He was valedictorian of his class at Ilium high.” He rubbed his arms. “He jumped the day he was supposed to graduate.”
Jerk didn’t understand people who jumped, but they did it anyway.
“He was a good kid… gentle.” Tiny cleared his throat. “World chewed him up before he was eighteen. They never found his body, Witch took him.” Tiny crossed himself over his heart, Late too. A ward against the Witch.
Corning Memorial Hospital. Albany, NY. Early July 1985
“But he wouldn’t have done it without backup, Tiny. My car…”
“You mean the car you taught him how to drive so he could drive your drunk ass around?” Tiny crossed his arms. “Did you even tell him when you lost your license?”
Late’s mom looked like she’d been slapped across the face. She sat down on a bench, face in hands. “After Rusty died I kept it under control, but when Stephen–” She sobbed. “Tiny, what do I do?”
Tiny sat beside her, the bench squeaking. He put an arm around her. “Fucked if I know, Marilyn.”
Late’s mom laughed through her tears. “Now you sound like Rusty.”
“What I know is I need a temporary replacement for my most dependable employee.” Tiny looked up at Late. “This boy offered to do the job.”
“I asked Tiny for help paying you back, mom.” Late shifted side to side, not making eye contact. “By September I’ll be old enough we can register the new car in my name.”
“And Marilyn. I’m going to give you a number. Jimmy Ray. Remember him?”
“The guy who became a priest? What’s he do, run an AA?” She laughed bitterly.
“That’s up to you to ask him about that.” Tiny leaned in conspiratorially. “Buddy calls him Brother James. Vice principal. Teaches math. Member of the scholarship committee.” He looked at Late. “What do you say we get your boy a better education?”
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September, 1995
Late stood up, smiling now. “I nearly killed Jerk and what did Tiny do? Does me three favors in a row!”
Kid stood too. It was cold and all the drinks were empty. “Three? You wanted to go to Academy too?” Kid wrinkled their nose.
“Academy sucked! But I had my own cadet uniform, passed my driver’s test, and had a car to visit Sarah that November!” He began picking up empty cans.
“All just side effects of things that benefited me.” Tiny said, pushing off the bulkhead wall where he’d planted himself. “I needed things done and to know someone was there for my boy at Academy while he recovered.”
“I was fine alone at Academy. I’m always fine.” Jerk had stood and was placing the crates back under the deck, Kid handing him the last one. Late and Tiny said their goodbyes, trash in hand. Tiny was bound for 401 and Late a nap before his shift.
“You want to read together?” Kid asked as they descended the stairs with Jerk.
“That story always makes me feel really tired for some reason.” Jerk said blankly as they entered the Squat. “I think I’m just going to sleep. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Laying in bed that night, Kid kept turning the name ‘Buddy’ over and over in their mind until they fell asleep.