Extra Napkins
A serial novel about people in a dying rust-belt city that's protected by bureaucratic paralysis and old secrets just trying to make it to tomorrow.
First Shift
-
Jerk
Bus Stop. Ilium, New York. October 1985.
“Hey!”
A commuter yells. He’s looking at Commuter’s shoes. They are light brown. Have pointier toes than he likes. Broken in, so they are probably—
“Buddy, can you hear me? Hey!”
—comfortable. He hates being called that. The song’s almost over. His eyes start to move up. Commuter’s slacks are brand new. Probably going to—
“Hey, jerk!”
—an interview. Fade to Black trails off in crashing drums and guitar riffs. Dead air mixtape hiss. Endless cicada whine fills his right ear.
He needs a new name. Jerk has a certain ring to it. Better than ‘Buddy.’
Jerk pulls the headphone off his left ear and pushes up his glasses. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
He stares through the Commuter’s factory-wrinkled button-down shirt. Jerk hates when people interrupt music.
“Yeah, whatever.” Commuter looks anxious. “I need to take the 40 to—”
“The 40? 40 doesn’t stop here.” It was this Jerk’s first lie.
The synths from All Day start in his right ear, covering the phantom cicada.
“But-” Commuter’s upset. “The sign.”
“It lies. Vonnegut and 3rd, I’d hurry.”
Rapid footfalls. No thanks muttered. Gone.
Jerk puts his headphone back on and waits for his bus, synths and drum machines filling his ears before Jorgensen begins his droning delivery.
Time to go.
-
Tiny
The News. Ilium, New York. Early July 1995.
Door opens, bell rings.
“Jerk, where the hell have you been?” barks the enormous man behind the counter. He has the brow of a caveman hosting two bushy caterpillars and deep-set eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. A mass of flesh, tall as a bookcase, and probably twice as heavy.
“Screw you, Tiny, you know where I’ve been.” Jerk barks back, waving a bag of used cassettes at him.
“Hey! Is that any way to talk to your father?” Tiny bellows.
Jerk sees a scrawny kid at the comic rack wincing, bracing for a hit. The kid has heard that tone before.
“Father? The only time your fat ass ever ran was from the paternity test.”
This routine again. Jerk hears the kid laugh and looks back. They’d put the comic rack between themselves and the counter.
“Ha! Good one, Jerk.” Tiny’s laugh has the mirthless bass of the passing trucks on Vonnegut.
He puts a key ring on the glass counter. “Welby quit.”
Tiny picked at something in his teeth with a thumbnail.
“Your mother needs me. Can’t stay, need you to watch The News until Late gets here.”
Welby didn’t pull his weight, no big loss, but that left him at the mercy of…
“Late? He took the car, probably lost, and won’t show back up until 3am!” Jerk groaned.
“I told Late to be early,” Tiny says solemnly, a ward against ill fortune.
“3am at the earliest, Tiny.” Jerk begins to chew on the side of his thumb. “Don’t expect me to pay for my cokes.”
“You pay for them?” Tiny knows the score.
“Go, Tiny.” Jerk takes the key ring off the counter. “I’ll watch The News until Late gets here, whenever it is.”
It was a vow.
With a grunt of approval, Tiny extracts his mass from behind the counter, making his way to the exit. He looks back as he holds the door open to the corner and the threatening clouds. “Don’t burn the place down, OK?”
“No promises.”
-
Reduced Price
Three items are placed on the counter: a bottle of orange juice, a bag of chips, and a stretch-wrapped sandwich—the lettuce stubbornly refusing to turn brown despite a bright orange REDUCED PRICE sticker covering the “Best By” date.
Jerk begins to ring them up.
“So when’s Norma coming back?”
The customer is a regular. Sandy blonde hair, a handlebar mustache with a hint of red. Jerk reckons he was more of a strawberry blonde as a kid. Sad Eyes.
“Norma had surgery again. She’ll be back when she’s feeling better.”
Jerk points at the price on the register’s readout.
Norma made the sandwich. Norma and Tiny made Jerk.
“It’s just… I was thinking about it last night, and even three days old—” Sad Eyes holds up the sandwich as evidence. “—even three days old, her sandwiches remind me of sitting in my Gram’s kitchen.”
“Uh-huh.” Jerk accepts the cash offered and rings it in. Seventy-seven cents in change. “Just sitting in a kitchen, eating a sandwich?”
“No, it’s more.” Sad Eyes puts his lunch in his backpack. “It’s like a happy memory. I’m sitting at the kitchen table. I’m small. My feet don’t even reach the floor when I sit. It’s sunny. She’s there, humming as she makes her afternoon tea. I feel warm. Safe. Happy.”
“Huh.” Jerk hands Sad Eyes his change. “Sounds like you’re getting a lot of value for your money, then.”
Sad Eyes nods, looking wistful. He turns to leave without another word.
“Enjoy the sandwich.”
-
Original Sin
There was a time when Jerk didn’t know hate in his heart.
Don’t laugh. Lots of people laugh when Jerk says that. They sneer. But Jerk’s studied human nature. Jerk’s read Rousseau and Camus. What have they read? He’s cashed them out. The Star? Hello!? The—rolls eyes—New York Times and The Washington Post? Jerk’s just happy to meet someone who reads at all, honest.
So little Jerk’s an innocent, right? The sweetest, purest boy you ever wanted to meet. A smile filled with joy. Even if he’d seen Norma bounce cans off Tiny’s head after she caught him with a girlfriend, there was still this sweet innocence, a radiance to the boy.
It took true villainy to destroy it.
It was the August before Jerk turned 10. Tiny treated The News like the albatross it was, slung around his neck by his father like his father before him. But Norma loved the Coast and took Jerk there every summer for a week while Tiny tended The News with the hired help.
One of Jerk’s favorite things about the Coast was fried dough. Such a simple treat—literally just a chunk of dough stretched out, thrown in hot oil, and covered in powdered sugar or dipped in marinara. Jerk could go either way. It was a candidate for the manna of the gods. Especially in little Jerk’s eyes.
It was afternoon—one-thirty, maybe two. Norma had dragged Jerk to her favorite flea market, promising him lunch before they headed back to the motel for a siesta, resting up for her usual nightly ritual: the pier’s buffet and casino, while Jerk haunted the carnival rides and arcades, lingering until they rolled up the streets for families at eleven.
They spotted a prime street-side parking space, and Jerk jumped out to hold it while Norma pulled around. Drivers tried to nose in, but Jerk stood firm. What were they going to do, hit a kid?
The sky smelled burnt. That gray afternoon haze you get on the East Coast, before the sun begins to set in the west and the wind turns, the land exhaling heat and stink back into the sea. Gulls circled above, their cries full of menace, but they stayed aloft.
It was Jerk’s favorite spot for fried dough, right by the beach. He got his with extra powdered sugar—messy, but little Jerk didn’t care. He was starving. Norma got a slice of cheese pizza, like always. They shared his coke. They always did. Norma’s idea.
They sat outside. Jerk had just taken his first bite when Norma sighed.
“You didn’t grab me any napkins.”
Jerk jumped up reflexively. He didn’t need another lecture about being raised by wolves.
He took his time chewing that heavenly bite as he ran to get the napkins—a wise call, considering the atrocity he was about to witness.
A single seagull—wings spread—descended from the heavens and snatched Jerk’s fried dough right off the plate. Norma cowered, clutching her pizza, a Jurassic rodent protecting its child from a dinosaur.
“No!” Jerk raced over, but it was too late. He could chase it, sure—but would he have wanted the seagull’s prize if he caught it?
“Buddy, you should have kept an eye on your fried dough.”
Her single slice of pizza was nearly gone. Jerk watched as she tidied up the table, gathering the trash onto her tray. Her ritual. The signal that it was time to go.
Jerk looked at the napkins in his hands. At the sky. At Norma.
“I HATE SEAGULLS!” Jerk screamed, hurling the napkins to the ground.
Heads turned. People stared. Tears welled up and he bolted for the car.
Norma would catch up. She always did.
And that’s why Jerk hates seagulls.
-
Kid
The News. Ilium, New York. Early July 1995.
A thunderstorm blew into downtown just as the last of the commuters blew out.
It was hours after Tiny had abdicated the keys and hours before Jerk expected Late to even begin crafting excuses. Rain cleared out downtown faster than any vice raid, especially on a weeknight.
Jerk was alone in The News.
Except the kid.
The kid was still there.
Jerk went back to the cooler and grabbed his second coke of the day, a truly magnanimous gesture toward Tiny—he’d normally drunk three or four by this time. Today was different. Today he was watching the kid.
He’d thought they were a shoplifter, but they hadn’t stolen anything. Hadn’t even tried. The longer Jerk watched, the more curious he became. When the rain emptied everyone else out of downtown, Jerk really began to wonder.
Jerk sipped his coke and sized up the kid. The work boots were beat up, the hem of their jeans dirty and shredded in spots. They had a rucksack with them. Their cheekbones hinted at missed meals, both recent and historic.
It hit Jerk like Brother James at Academy.
The Kid.
The Kid didn’t have anywhere else to go in the rain.
“Oh hell.”
They looked over at Jerk. Bright eyes that for a split second saw straight through him. Jerk looked away, fumbled for his wallet.
“Dropped my wallet.” He held it up like proof.
Kid gave him a bland look, then went back to the comic and turned a page.
Minutes passed while Jerk waited for the moment to present itself. His stomach growled—loudly.
“Hey, Kid.”
Kid paused, as if recognizing the christening, before putting the comic back and coming over to the counter. They were taller than Jerk realized. Ghost of Adam’s apple and peach fuzz, some turning darker. Baggy clothes, mended in spots. Bright eyes—the color of freshly minted pennies.
“Yeah?” Kid’s voice cracked.
“You know where Pizza, Paul, and Mary’s is?” Jerk fished a twenty out of his wallet.
“’Course I do. Just down the block.” They looked at him like they were asking his face a question.
The next part was as delicate as it was nonchalant. Jerk folded the twenty lengthwise, placing it on the glass counter like a tent.
“I get pizza and wings there almost every night. Tell ’em Jerk wants the usual—and extra napkins this time.” Their pizza was notoriously greasy.
He flicked the twenty across the counter, knocking it askew before straightening it again. “You can keep the change, and a slice and some wings for you.” Kid’s eyes lit up—then narrowed, questioning.
“You trust me?” Kid asked. Jerk hadn’t let his face give them the answer they were looking for.
“No reason not to. You’ve read every comic in that rack twice and haven’t bent a single corner. Could’ve stolen a dozen cokes.”
Kid pinched the twenty, pocketed it, and put their rucksack on the counter. “Can you watch my things?”
“I’ll hold that behind the counter. Here, take an umbrella.”
Jerk took the rucksack and handed Kid Tiny’s umbrella over the counter.
“Thanks?” Kid fumbled with the umbrella like an alien artifact, trying to pry it open.
“No! That’s bad luck! Were you raised by wolves?”
Jerk came around the counter. He didn’t need the bad luck, or a broken umbrella. He brought Kid out the door, under the awning, and showed them how to open and close it.
“Don’t open an umbrella indoors, or bring an open one in, OK?” Jerk pointed at the awning over them. “That’s what this is here for, so you don’t curse us.”
With that, Kid headed down the block with Jerk’s twenty and Tiny’s umbrella. Jerk went back inside and made fresh coffee.
Someone would need it. Probably him.
-
Late
Phone rings, Jerk answers.
“The News.” click
Phone rings, Jerk answers.
“The News.” click
Phone Rings, Jerk answers.
“Tiny ain’t here, Late.”
“Crap.” That was Late’s voice all right. “Jerk…”
“What’s the story, this time, Late?” Jerk could hear cars in the background. Highway traffic? He swore he could hear a truck’s engine brake, a sound like Tiny blowing his nose.
“I overslept.” He had something in his mouth. Chewing. French fries? Late subsisted on sodium and caffeine.
“Late, you live upstairs, in The Squat.”
“But…”
“I heard you snoring, not 12 hours ago, Late.”
“I’m past Syracuse.” It was a fact. Jerk could tell. Late was at a rest stop. Jerk knew the one. Jerk could see the wallpaper just thinking about it.
“Snoring in the bedroom next to mi– FUCKING SYRACUSE?” It hit Jerk. Late wasn’t just going to simply be Late. “Start driving, Late!”
“So about that.” Jerk’s stomach dropped. Late’s explanations were always matryoshka dolls—one excuse nested inside another. “I came out from getting food and noticed I had a flat.”
“So you called the auto club?”
“Yeah. And you know what?”
“What, Late?”
“They can’t come onto the parkway! You have to use an authorized contractor!”
“So you called them?”
“Yeah. They got here 30 minutes ago.”
Jerk breathed a sigh of relief. “So you’re on your way.”
“About that.”
“About what, Late?”
“The lug nuts are rusted on. Fused. They need to tow my car.”
“They’re towing you here? Down the street, to Danny’s?” Danny was a crook, but he was the best mechanic downtown.
“I can’t afford that, Jerk. They don’t take the auto club.”
“Tell me they’re 24 hour service…”
Silence. They’d reached the last doll.
“Late.” Jerk was calm. So calm. Jerk had never been so calm. “Tiny skipped out, Norma’s recovering, and you’re the only other backup I have right now.”
“Jerk, I… I’ll try. I’m sorry.” Line went dead. No more discussion, but no more excuses either. Late wasn’t just late. He was Late. No ETA.
“I KNEW IT!” Jerk yelled at the empty store.
-
Extra Napkins
Door opens, bell rings.
Kid came through, umbrella loosely closed and hooked over one arm, with a pizza box held perfectly parallel to the Earth’s gravitational plane. A bag with wings and napkins balanced on top. Perfect execution by an amateur.
“So,” Kid said, looking thoughtful as they slid the pizza and wings onto the counter. “What did ‘Extra Napkins’ mean?”
Jerk stood, opened the bag, and looked down. “It meant extra napkins, and you got plenty.” He began digging for the stack of paper plates.
“It meant something, Jerk.”
“It meant get extra napkins.”
“Paul looked at me after I said it, Jerk.” Kid put their hand on top of the napkins, wings, and pizza, blocking Jerk’s access. “He stared at me, then went back to give the order to Mary in the kitchen. She stared too. Felt like a job interview.”
“That’s weird.” Jerk was nonchalant. He could smell the wings. They smelled like regret. He wanted them.
“So they come out, and you know what?”
“What, Kid?”
“They asked if I wanted to wash dishes and bus tables.”
“That’s amazing for you. I hope you accepted. Can I have access to our food?” Jerk tugged on the bag. He wanted those wings.
“I accepted the offer. What does ‘Extra Napkins’ mean, Jerk?” A question Jerk didn’t want to answer.
“It means look at the bag you brought back. It’s got lots of napkins. Stop inventing secret messages sent in your favor. Prospiracy theories are a real mental illness.” Kid huffed and took their hand off the goods.
Jerk laid out paper plates for both of them, each stacked four deep to keep the grease from soaking through. Stacks of napkins for each. A packet of red pepper and Parmesan on each plate. Jerk got cokes for both of them from the rear cooler. A real supper.
Other than the sounds of hunger being sated, they ate in silence. Kid ate everything offered. Not even the rats picked wings as clean of meat as Kid did.
“Hungry, huh?”
“I—” Kid’s voice cracked, like an old automatic stuck in high gear, refusing to downshift. “It’s my first hot food in days.” The change from the vowel to a fricative-heavy start seemed practiced, making coming in lower easier. They wiped their face. “Thank you.”
“You picked it up.” Jerk stated a fact. He stared at the oil the pizza had left on his paper plate.
“You got anywhere to sleep?” It was the type of question Jerk hated asking: one he needed an honest answer to, even though he already knew it.
“Yeah, Prospect St.” Kid looked away.
“Under the bridge to Foundry.” Jerk glanced at the door and the storm outside. “Where it floods when it rains.”
“Yeah.” Few could master the way Kid refused to make eye contact at that moment.
“So, you got anywhere safe to sleep?” It was the answer Jerk needed.
“No.” Kid was now trying to stare at a focal point on Mars.
Jerk nodded, sipped his coke. He let the bubbles go flat in his mouth before he swallowed and spoke again. It gave Kid time to start making eye contact with objects inside state lines.
“Me, Late, a couple others—we squat upstairs. Fifth floor. Used to be the penthouse. Roof springs leaks. Tiny will tell you the rent’s free because we’re a good alarm system for when it happens. It’s not as fancy as it sounds, but there’s an extra room for someone who needs it.” Jerk had made the offer a dozen times before. This was the first time he felt exposed by it. He didn’t understand why.
“Do you—” Kid’s raspy voice stuck, but it was because the words got jammed rather than cracking this time. “Would I have a door that locks?”
Jerk stopped and thought. That was a question no one had asked him before. “Yeah. Bathroom does too.”
He scratched his chin, thinking. “Did you want me to re-key them for you?”
“You don’t—” Kid began to protest, then stopped. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Can you hand me some more napkins?”
-
Hyperbolic Mirror
“Can I use the bathroom?” It was hours later—brow damp, hand clutching their abdomen—Kid was in sudden and serious distress.
“Of course you can use the bathroom.”
Kid bolted with an urgency no one should feel for The News’ bathroom. Jerk slipped on his headphones, cranked his music, and read—blocking out everything neither of them wanted overheard.
A customer. Then another. Regulars. One got the last bunch of bananas, the other bought a 6 pack. Jerk just pointed to the display to indicate price and pantomimed ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’. Neither blinked. They left. Minutes dragged. He worried he’d have to send a search party, and he had no other volunteers. He was about to go in when Kid came out, shaken but standing.
“Was it the pizza? The Wings? Are you OK?”
“I’ll be fine.” Kid dropped onto the stool next to Jerk and slumped against the wall. Sweat soaked through their sweatshirt, pressing into the papers tacked behind them. Jerk stayed quiet. “Not the food. I’ve got some… gut problems.” Kid was rubbing their abdomen. “It came on faster than normal.”
Jerk did what he did. Cooler—ginger ale. Aisle B—Pepto. Saltines from D, where the ramen packets next to them were a mess. He straightened them automatically before he went back to the counter and put his foraging in Kid’s reach.
He rang everything out, punched in exact change, and wrote JERK in block letters across the receipt before putting it in the til.
“I’ll pay you back.” Kid said weakly, taking their first sip.
“You’d just be handing me the change back from the pizza.”
“But your pizza was wasted.”
“No. It wasn’t.” Jerk’s eyes flashed. He was mad, he didn’t know why. It wasn’t at Kid.
Jerk got up. He paced Aisle C, which had a great view of the door if you were pacing. In the back hung a hyperbolic security mirror, letting Jerk see the entire store from any angle. Weird thing—custom-made for Tiny’s father. The center reflected clear and clean, showing the counter and door. The rest warped into a funhouse haze.
The coolers kicked off, and the only noise in The News was the sound of ginger ale slowly going flat and saltines crumbling in Kid’s mouth. Jerk stopped in the middle of the aisle and asked a question. “So how bad is it in there?”
“Let me clean it up. I’m almost steady.” Kid said. They were pallid.
“That’s not an answer, Kid.” Jerk caught Kid’s reflection in the mirror over the coolers. They stared at the back of his head.
“It’s my mess. Let me clean it up.”
“No! It’s just a mess.” Jerk shoved his hands into his pockets, grabbing two handfuls of material. Shoulders stiffened, elbows locked.
“My mess. My problem.”
“No one owns a problem!”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means: Just tell me how bad it is in there.” Jerk turned, looking directly at Kid, no mirrors. “It’s my job. Let me do it.”
Kid looked towards the bathroom door. “You’re going to need a mop.”
“That’s fine. How bad? Should I bring kitty litter?” Jerk’s shoulders relaxed as he took his hands out of his pockets.
“Even if just to improve the ambiance.” Kid smirked weakly and nodded.
“Little punk.”
“Jerk.”
-
Old Pennies
Jerk put up the ‘Back in 10 minutes!’ sign, locked the door, and grabbed the cleaning supplies. Cleaning the bathroom didn’t bother him—it was part of the job. At least this catastrophe hit during a slow stretch.
“I’ve seen worse,” Jerk announced as he went inside. “Well, a few times,” He said quietly to himself once the door closed. Based on the mess, the toilet had dodged from side to side as Kid retched—and maybe during another type of expulsion. The smell had the tang of bile, stomach acid, and something metallic that Jerk couldn’t place.
Tiny had taped multiple layers of electrical tape over the 2nd switch on the wall plate that controlled the lights, and Jerk thought he knew why. The tape didn’t stand a chance against the key he sawed through it with. Jerk flipped the switch, and the ancient vent fan sputtered to life, coughing the stink into the alley with a dying whine.
Kitty litter was a lifesaver with messes like these. The clay bound to all sorts of liquids and semi-solids, then you swept or shoveled it up. Kid’s output was pushing shovel territory. Jerk wasn’t going to be able to eat his usual for a few days after this cleanup.
The metallic smell grew stronger near the trash. As Jerk moved to dump the kitty litter and defiled meal, he saw the source—wrapped in blood-soaked paper towels, hitting him with a stink like a sock full of old pennies.
“No way.” Jerk was imagining things. Had to be. He tied the bag shut, sealing the cacophony of stinks inside.
The secret to cleaning The News’ bathroom was the drain in the floor. Once you dealt with the semi-solids, you could just rinse the rest down the drain. Tiny once joked that he could kill someone in it and wash all the evidence down the drain. Jerk reckoned he was speaking hypothetically—but Tiny’s father might have had some practical experience.
Jerk unhooked the hose hanging from under the sink and unrolled it. Spraying down the bathroom took no time, the mop after that was as easy as wiping down a table you were cleaning for the third time in a row.
Jerk used the mop handle to pry the door open and speed up the floor drying. He turned off the fan. It’s whine was getting louder, and a fan like it had caught fire in a tenant’s apartment just a couple weeks ago. Tiny also had a really strict no-fires-on-Jerk’s-shift rule.
“I’m throwing this in the dumpster in the alley.”
The rain was over and it was dark and quiet, except for the sound of distant thunder. City stank, but it always did after rain. In the alley, Jerk heaved the bag into the dumpster and stood there a minute before heading back inside. Thought about what he saw, and that old pennies smell.
Kid was up and on their feet, putting new bag into the bathroom trash. “I’m feeling better, might as well help.” Jerk realized he saw the wince and not Kid, that first time. Kid had real talent at wincing, and making themselves smaller. They were nearly as tall as him, but slighter.
“You gotta tie the bag just how he likes it or Tiny yells at me.” He showed Kid, it wasn’t hard, and got a chance to size up some things. Kid truly stunk and needed a bath the way Tiny needed his orthopedics. One of the stinks was the old penny smell, but very faint.
Jerk headed back and got another coke for himself, a ginger ale for Kid. He put Kid’s drink down on the counter. Kid hurriedly finished their current one and cracked open the next. “Thank you.”
Kid leaned the stool back, still tired, oblivious to the sweat stain they’d left on the papers taped to the wall. Jerk stood on the customer side of the counter.
“So, I didn’t realize you were a gi—”
“Am not. Shut your face.” Kid’s bright eyes flashed—irritation, anger, fear.
That first syllable was stuck in his throat for a moment before he spit it out and continued. “Are not. Shutting face.”
Jerk spun on his heel, resumed his habitual pacing of Aisle C.
“How did you figure it out?” Kid was the one staring at the hyperbolic mirror now.
“Old pennies.” Jerk kept pacing. Kid was silent, and looked quizzical. Jerk tried to explain. “Trash stunk.” Still nothing. “The pad?”
“Oh! Oh.” Kid looked toward the open bathroom door, embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve got a good nose.”
“And you clean the bathroom?”
“It’s a gift not a weakness.” Jerk had conquered his reverse peristaltic reactions years ago.
“Guess this means the offer of the room is rescinded.” Kid’s head hung.
Jerk stopped, turned to look at kid. Puzzled. “Why would I rescind the offer?”
“People rescind offers all the time.” A matter of fact.
“So I’ve heard.” Not that Jerk knew a thing or two about that. He resumed pacing. Looked at the time. Cursed Late. “Kid, the only thing that changes is now I understand better why you asked about locks.”
“People… want things.” Kid crossed their arms tight, shrinking in on themself. “They give you a couch, warm food. Then at 3 a.m., they’re standing over you, rubbing themselves. That’s when you realize what the food and dry place are really costing you—unless you want their ‘kind offer’ rescinded in the middle of the night. It’s hard to trust.”
“Kid I—” Jerk grasped for what to say next. “Assholes.” He stared at the coolers for a minute. When he turned back around, he saw that Kid had slumped forward, resting their head on their arms, snoring softly.
Jerk paced Aisle C, glanced at the time, then back at Kid. Their breathing was slow, steady. He let them sleep.
-
Daylight
2 a.m. came and went. Then 3. 4 likewise. A compressor on the coolers whined, and Jerk pictured Tiny whining about repair bills soon enough. Kid hadn’t fallen asleep so much as capitulated to it. Jerk figured they’d wake up when he squeezed behind them to deal with the occasional straggler, but Kid’s soft snores never faltered.
You’d be surprised how readily customers accepted a reeking, sweat-soaked person blocking their view of Tiny’s collection of GLASS PIPES—FOR TOBACCO USE ONLY, but things were usually pretty weird downtown at those hours.
Some of the more dedicated regulars—the ones who felt personally invested in The News—wanted to ask. Jerk could tell. But he’d just gesture for silence, and they learned to live with the mystery.
It was 4:49 a.m. when the door banged loudly as the roach coach guy kicked it open with his heel while he was carrying a flat of breakfast sandwiches in his arms. A total breach of decorum.
“NO!” Kid awoke with a start, arms raised to protect their face. The stool tipped back, cracking their head on the wall. With pain came awareness. “Ow.” They rubbed their head.
“Whoa, sorry.” Jerk went to Academy with the guy. He was not sorry. Guy looked around. “Where’s Late?”
“Late.” Jerk was not unpacking it with this guy. Guy handed him the bill of sale to sign.
“So Roxy—” Roxy owned the roach coach service they used for breakfast sandwiches. “She says that she can get you flats of lunch sandwiches for the same price as these while Norma’s recovering.” Tiny had a great deal on the breakfast sandwiches. Their lunch sandwiches wouldn’t be as good as Norma’s, but Roxy’s offer still verged on charity.
“Tell Roxy that we owe her, and thanks.” Guy left, quiet again.
Jerk had been mainlining lukewarm coffee and cokes all night, an alertness ritual he’d developed in middle school bingeing pulp. Its effectiveness was fading fast. He yawned and could feel the water in the corner of his eyes. He got two orange juices from the coolers, napkins from the deli counter, and placed them with two of the breakfast sandwiches from the flat, pushing Kid’s share in their direction. “Please don’t make me clean this up.”
Kid’s first bites were tentative. Jerk put the rest of the sandwiches in the warmer and made a new pot of coffee. By the time he’d done that, Kid’s sandwich and orange juice was gone. Jerk was finishing his when a dark shape appeared outside the door.
Door opens, bell rings.
“Jerk, where the hell is Late?” Tiny was freshly shaved, relaxed, smelled like cologne and the cigar he smoked on the way over.
“Syracuse, last I knew.” Jerk shrugged. He didn’t want to unpack it with Tiny either.
“Syracuse? Huh.” Tiny seldom pondered the unknowable too deeply, he didn’t consider it wise. Tiny looked at Kid, grunted acknowledgment. “You look like shit.” Kid stepped aside, shoulders tight, waiting for Tiny to start barking.
Jerk filled him in on Roxy’s offer, the whining compressor, and other things he’d noticed in the sixteen hours since Tiny had left him there. Then he turned to the ugly work. “We can’t run with this few people, Tiny.”
“I know, we’ll figure something out.” Tiny reconsidered Kid. “You’re the homeless kid that always reads my comics when it rains, right?” Kid nodded. “Didn’t recognize you, looking like shit like that. What’s your name?”
Kid looked at Jerk.
“Kid.” Jerk answered. “They just go by Kid. They’re going to be joining The Squat.”
“So you two are friends.” Tiny cleared his throat. “Good. You got a job, Kid?”
“Pizza, Paul, and Mary’s. Two nights a week. Just started.” Kid was proud of it.
Tiny looked at Jerk, almost bemused. “Their pizza is so greasy. Bet you needed extra napkins.” He looked back at Kid. “So you have some time free.”
“Is this a job interview?” Kid looked from Tiny to Jerk, eyes pleading What is this?
“Might become one, but right now this is just us talking and me hoping you’ll be truthful with me.” Tiny’s tone was more warm and genuine than a vacuum tube radio, but Kid still shrank when Tiny said it.
“You on drugs?”
“Not the type you’re asking about.”
“You got a legal name?”
“I don’t like that name.”
Tiny chuckled. “I can understand.” Tiny’s full name was a burden. Jerk’s too.
“Last question:” Here it comes, Jerk thought, the Rorschach test. “Have you ever stolen from me?”
“I–” Kid stuttered. Answer the question, Kid, Jerk thought as he stared at Kid. “Norma’s sandwiches. Pads. Advil. Things I needed.” Kid slumped, looking defeated.
Tiny leaned back, relaxing. “You pass.”
“But… I stole from you!” Kid leaned forward, eyes wide in shock.
“I watched you steal. I’m fat and slow, not blind.” Tiny sucked in his snot before clearing his throat, an ugly sound. “You said it yourself. You took what you needed.”
“What does this mean? I have a job at The News?” Kid looked as puzzled as Jerk was about to be.
“It’s up to the hiring manager.” Tiny looked at Jerk.
“Who’s the hiring manager?” Jerk stared back at Tiny.
“You, Jerk.” Tiny said, a field promotion.
“So, do I have a job?” Kid’s eyes were fixed on him, bright pennies ornamenting their wan face.
“I… I guess.”
Jerk, decision maker.
“Now that that’s settled, go upstairs and clean up, sleep. You two look like shit and will scare away customers.” Tiny jerked his thumb towards the door.
“This bedroom is bigger than some apartments!” Kid’s cracked voice echoed off the bare walls. “Is yours this big?”
“Minus all the room books and tapes take up.” Jerk didn’t mention those had already overflowed into the great room. He finished oiling the hinge pins and started tapping them down.
Kid sat on the bare mattress in the corner, still drying their hair. Sunlight flooded across the floor. “Thanks for loaning me clean clothes.”
“Thanks for agreeing to let me wash your filthy ones.” Jerk tested the door. It let out a horrendous screech.
“Can I read on your bed while you work?”
“Sure, Kid.” Jerk wedged the flathead under the hinge barrel and tapped the pin loose. The new lock would be next.
He was going to take his time and get it right.
-
Spiedies Disaster
Several hours later…
The News hadn’t seen a more gruesome scene since the days of Tiny’s father.
They’d laid the victims out on two trays on the counter in the kitchen. Soggy bread bits went on one tray, cut and skewered cubes of marinated meat on the other.
Spiedies. Six of them.
“After my tire was fixed, I got the bright idea to get spiedies to make up for it,” Late was downtrodden. “I wasn’t thinking. I put the bag of ice I bought to keep them fresh on the top of the box, and it melted. They sat in a puddle.”
Tiny leaned over the deli counter from the floor, looking at the carnage. “The bread’s mush. Done in for sure.”
“Hear me out,” It was the Kid who had the plan. “Bread’s easy. Throw it out. We’ve got rolls in the store. I’ll butter, season, and toast them.”
Tiny nodded, in agreement. “Go on, Kiddo.” He licked his lips.
Kid held up a skewer of chicken and lamb. “No grill back here, but if we broil the water out, toss them in olive oil, rosemary, and thyme, then broil again?”
“Definitely thyme in whatever this place was using,” Jerk had sniffed them up close, he wasn’t proud.
“Not sure that’s traditional?” Tiny’s face said he wasn’t sure. He knew more about Melba sauce with mozzarella sticks.
“This was a small chain that had their own recipe and was proud of it, it was near Sar—” Late cut himself off. “Near a friend’s place.”
Jerk and Tiny exchanged a glance.
“Kid’s got the right idea.” A customer had come in and Tiny was retreating to the counter.
“I’m not sure how the skewer and rolls fit with serving?” Kid held up another skewer, beef and lamb, perplexed.
“I think you pull them out when they’re in the rolls, but you can just pull them before you cook if that’s easier.” He gestured at the grocery floor. “Grab anything you need.”
Jerk heard Tiny finish checking the customer out. He grabbed Late’s arm and pulled him out, letting Kid work on the recovery effort.
“Did you say Sarah? Sarah Ann McGuire’s out of prison?” Jerk asked as he pulled a protesting Late over to the checkout.
“Ow! Yeah, I…” Late rubbed his neck and looked away. “She finally got parole, and I got the bug to visit her.” They’d been pen pals for ten years. Jerk had the scars to prove it.
“She murdered people,” Tiny said, the memory clear. “Husband. In-laws. Cold blood. It was all over the news.” Tiny looked at Jerk. “Did he tell you that she used an ice pick?”
“It was not cold blood. She was railroaded. He was… he was doing bad things, Tiny. Them too.”
Late was only 15 when he answered an ad in the weekly looking for a pen pal. She didn’t realize he was a kid young enough to be her grandson until after he’d turned 18. He didn’t know she’d committed triple homicide until he was 20.
“So did you two…?” Tiny’s question hung, verblessly. He looked right at Late. Late turned a shade of red Jerk hadn’t seen before.
“We… She’s a nice lady!” Late stalked off to restock the cooler. Jerk assessed they’d done the deed.
Tiny’s voice dropped, lower than the rumble of the bus idling on Fourth. “This Kid. Made out of rubber or something?” Tiny looked back at the deli counter. “You mopped their guts off the floor last night, and now they’re running around like Mr Food?”
Why yes, Tiny. Jerk had done a better job than normal with that particular mess. Thank you for noticing.
“Crashed for a couple of hours and then was back up and restless,” Jerk was the same way. Tiny too. “You’re paying Kid, right? Because they consider The Squat payment and—” Jerk looked right at Tiny, eye contact he didn’t usually like to make “—Squat’s mine. You pay Kid separately.”
It was Tiny who looked away. He spit under his breath. “Blackmailer.” Jerk had learned from a master.
Tiny cleared his throat. “Federal minimum, cash,” he said. “Same as you, same as Late, same as the other putzes you’ve brought in here. Paperwork in January if they decide they’re paying taxes.” Tiny made some lies other people’s responsibility.
The smell out of the kitchen was mouth-watering already, and Jerk saw Kid run out to Aisle A and grab the bread.
“You have to tell Kid the Golden Rule.” Tiny said, letting the pause stretch. It was Jerk’s job to say it aloud.
“No crimes on the clock.”
Employee Orientations
-
It's Just Money
The Squat. Early August 1995.
Squat phone rings twice, Kid doesn’t answer. It stops.
Squat phone rings twice, Kid doesn’t answer. It stops.
Squat phone rings twice, Kid answers.
“What do you want, Tiny?”
“They taught you my code already?” Tiny’s voice, Kid could hear The News in the background.
“Easy code. Be easier if we had an intercom.” Kid pondered. “Does this building have pneumatic tubes?”
“Shut up and bring Jerk with you downstairs.”
Door opens, bell rings.
“Tiny.” Jerk was still yawning and made his way to pour himself a cup of The News’ coffee. It was too early for anything except reading.
“Sandwich delivery.” Tiny announced it like a bill come due.
Jerk was about to pour sugar in his cup when he stopped, looked at Tiny.
“Special order?”
“Yeah. A number seven.” Tiny extracted himself from his throne. “Finish making your coffee, watch the counter.”
Jerk did as he was told.
Kid could feel the energy in the air. “Can I… Can I watch you make it?”
“Sure Kiddo, was hoping you’d ask.” Kid was about to be initiated.
Tiny didn’t look for a hairnet for his curly mop of salt and pepper hair, but he washed his hands for 30 seconds in the prep sink and had Kid do the same.
“Kiddo, can you grab some kaiser rolls, I need one for this sandwich.” Kid ran to grab them. Tiny went into the display case, barely above freezing, and got the prosciutto, salami, and honey ham. Tiny cut off 5 slices of each, discarding the first four. He placed the slices in one frying pan and started the heat. “Get a dozen eggs from the grocery cooler.” He commanded Kid while he grabbed another frying pan. Kid went in that direction, Tiny calling after. “American cheese too! The cheap stuff!”
Tiny had the meat sizzling in one pan and butter in another before Kid could get there and back. “Rolls, eggs, and cheese!”
“Cut the roll in half and butter it, one half turn of the pepper grinder on each side.” Tiny commanded. Kid obeyed.
Tiny grabbed the biggest egg of the dozen and cracked it into the waiting butter. As it fried, he ground pepper on top: one complete turn, then a second. He waited a little more before putting a slice of cheese on top of the egg, sliding the sizzling meat on top of that, and another slice of cheese on top of everything. In the second frying pan, he put the kaiser roll Kid had prepared face down in the sizzling oil and fat from the meat.
“I should have had more breakfast.” Kid said, trying not to drool as Tiny assembled the sandwich.
Tiny laughed. “Get yourself some Donut Tyme on the way.” Everything was neatly stacked into a sandwich, save the top of the kaiser roll. “Now, the secret.”
Tiny winked and made ‘shh’ motion at Kid. He grabbed a small plastic bottle of lime juice from the fridge and shook it. The bottle opened with a pop, crusty with dried juice. Tiny squirted a small amount on top of the meat before setting the rest of the bun on top. He leaned over to Kid and whispered. “The acid cuts the fat, and the citrus bite contrasts the flavors of the meats.”
He put the sandwich in wax paper, wrapped tight, and then sliced it in half. “You have to let it breathe, or it gets soggy.” Finally, he placed another layer of wax paper around it, more a sleeve than a wrap.
Tiny carried the sandwich out. Jerk let Tiny in behind the counter. Tiny wrote out the slip, placed the sandwich in a bag. He stapled the bag shut over the slip, before handing it to Jerk.
“City Hall. Third floor. McNally.” Jerk nodded and took the bag. “Cash only.”
As they walked, Kid peeked at the slip stapled to the outside. “Thirteen hundred twenty-nine dollars and sixteen cents? For a sandwich?” They weren’t questions. “McNally’s a councilman?” That was.
“City Comptroller.” Jerk corrected Kid.
“Tiny’s blackmailing the city’s Comptroller?”
Jerk stopped. Kid too. Jerk held up the bag. “We are delivering a sandwich!”
Jerk started walking. Kid caught up.
“A thirteen hundred dollar sandwich.” Kid was undeterred. “It didn’t smell that good.”
Jerk stopped again. Kid screeched to a halt. Jerk offered the bag. “You want to know why this sandwich costs as much as it does? Go back and ask Tiny, or you can hand it off to Comptroller McNally and ask him.”
Kid held up their hands. Backing away. “I was just curious.”
“Don’t get curious, curious people don’t deliver sandwiches. Doesn’t matter how much it costs, it’s just money.” Jerk resumed walking. He didn’t want the sandwich to get too cold. They were almost to City Hall.
McNally had a secretary. The secretary was named Ms Dunworth. Ms Dunworth was expecting them.
“Jerk!” She was grandmotherly, with half glasses, a pea green cardigan, and a tea stained smile. She considered the enigma of Kid. “And who’s this? You’re always a loner!”
“Kid.” Kid gave a small wave, doing that thing Jerk noticed where they shrink a little.
“And I’m Ms Dunworth.” She smiled again. It could brighten an abyss, tea-stains and all. “Well now that introductions are finished, Comptroller McNally told me to call when you were here!”
She picked up the receiver on her phone and pressed one of the square clear pillars. It lit up. Kid could hear the phone ring in the other room. A muffled male voice on the phone followed the muffled voice behind the door by a split second. “Yes, Comptroller McNally, they just arrived. I’ll bring them in.” She stood. Brown pencil skirt. Sensible shoes. Looked like everyone’s favorite teacher.
She opened the door, smiled, and they walked through. It clicked shut behind them.
McNally’s office was wood panelled with built-in shelves filled with books on accounting and finance. His desk dominated it, with two large leather chairs in front. A projection of his power. It hadn’t changed in the decade Jerk had been coming to it.
“Jerk, let’s see that sandwich. Jerk’s friend–” He gestured at the left chair. “–take a seat.” Kid instantly and correctly determined it was not a request and sat down in the left chair.
Jerk handed him the bag. “Price is on the slip.”
McNally looked at the slip. “Well worth the value I’ll receive, I’m sure.” His smile was too wide. He opened a drawer and pulled out a cash box, carefully counting out what he owed. He paid in a mix of twenties, fives, and ones, placing the 16 cents alongside it. Jerk took the cash, counted it out. Handed it to Kid to count too. Kid didn’t understand what they were seeing but knew what they were supposed to do.
“I hope you’ll both join me while I eat it?” McNally smiled that too-wide smile at Jerk and gestured at the right chair.
McNally took the sandwich and napkins out of the bag and began unwrapping it like a grandmother who wants to save the wrapping paper. He folded and saved the layers, placing them in his desk, out of sight. He used the paper bag as his plate. The comptroller picked up the sandwich with both hands and stopped, putting it back down.
“I should not start on this without having a glass of water ready.” He filled his glass from the pitcher on his desk before taking hold of the sandwich again.
His first bite was easily a quarter of the sandwich. It was too much for his mouth, but he chewed anyway. “Mmmm” His eyes rolled in his head and his head lolled a little. The cheese, the roll, and the meat must have been a massive wad he was chewing. He might have had trouble swallowing, if he didn’t take a huge swing of water with it. He took another bite, nearly as large. “Mfth dth toe gof!” He leaned his chair back gleefully.
McNally was oblivious to them. Kid questioned Jerk with their eyes, Jerk shrugged the same way.
McNally’s chair tilted forward, and he grabbed his glass of water to wash down the second bite, slamming down the empty glass and refilling it with one hand while he shoved the sandwich into his face again for another encounter with the other. “Toe gof!”
“What. The. Hell.” Was the first thing Kid said when they got to the street. They sucked on a peppermint candy Ms Dunworth had offered them as they left.
Jerk shrugged. “Sandwich delivery.”
“That smelled like a blackmail, but he acted like we delivered him the Holy Grail.”
“It’s just money.” Jerk repeated that to himself a lot during situations like this. “Sandwich delivery.” He started heading back towards The News, wad of money in his pocket.
“‘It’s just money.’” Kid repeated, following behind and not sounding convinced.
-
Bologna Steaks
The News. Early August 1995.
It was a mid afternoon lull. Tiny leaned back, eyes closed, while Jerk swept the aisles. Behind the deli counter, Kid was trying to figure out how the slicer worked from first principles.
“Wow this reminds me of a saw in shop class!”
“You’ll work better with fingers!” Tiny barked without opening his eyes.
Tiny was tired. Two weeks after her surgery, Norma had gotten an infection in her surgical wound. Fevers. Puss. Drainage. The kinds of smells that even Jerk wasn’t comfortable dealing with. Tiny was sleeping even less than usual.
Jerk looked past the Tiny act and saw his father—his Dad—for the first time in a year or two. It was always easier to look at what he was eating or yelling about. The circles around Tiny’s eyes were darker, bruised and black. Tiny had been burning it at both ends before Jerk was even a twinkle, but Norma’s illnesses were another kind of exhaustion.
“I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” Kid called from the back, and then. “Whoa, those slices are way too thick!” Another pause. “Are fried bologna steaks a thing?”
“I could certainly be convinced!” Tiny called back, eyes still closed. Jerk wondered how well Tiny was eating with Norma sick.
“She’s not coming back to work at The News, Jerk.” Tiny’s lips moved but the rest of him was a motionless mountain. He spoke softly, it didn’t carry far.
Jerk didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Why, Tiny?”
“You and Kid—you’re young. When you’re sick, they want to fix you.” Tiny stayed motionless, arms crossed, eyes still shut.
“Me, Norma. We’re old.” Tiny sighed, collapsing a little. Jerk could almost see the years that Tiny pushed back with sheer force of will creep in, just a little. “You get sick, their first instinct isn’t to fix it. It’s to simply rip it out.”
“That’s… medicine?” To no one’s surprise, Jerk didn’t get what Tiny was trying to say. Jerk heard the chain-fence-slamming-shut noise of Norma’s favorite flimsy frying pan hitting the coils of the range in the kitchen cubby behind the Deli counter. The snap of the burner clicking on clattered in Jerk’s right ear.
Tiny ignored him. “Eventually, they just keep cutting pieces off—patches of skin, chunks of colon—until you start wondering if they’re healing you or carving away what’s left. To live. To enjoy.”
“What’s this, Tiny? Has Norma got something else?”
“No. Not yet. But eventually.” Jerk could almost see Tiny deflating, very slowly. “This is four surgeries in five years.” He got quiet. Jerk finished D and moved to E to sweep. There was a sizzle from the kitchen, a smell of salted meat and garlic. The smell seemed to slowly rouse the giant to speak again.
“I asked her if she missed The News, and do you know what she did? She started crying.” Tiny opened his eyes and looked at Jerk, his eyes wet. “She asked me when she’ll have given enough to me, to this place.”
She was always saying The News was the family’s business and not hers. Jerk guessed she meant it.
“Is it OK to open condiments?” Kid yelled from the kitchen.
“Yeah Kid.” Jerk yelled back. He didn’t care. He turned to Tiny. “So she’s not coming back?” Jerk’s eyes shot to the Deli counter, where the delicious smell was emanating from. “Are we shutting down the counter?”
“My father’s ghost would kill us all.”
Kid beamed as they came from the kitchen, a plate in each hand—the kind of thick plates that always went mushy with spaghetti and meatballs. But not today. It was two thick slabs of bologna, fresh off the slicer, fried with salt, pepper, and Jerk sniffed had Kid found Norma’s personal celery salt/paprika blend? Three dabs adorned each plates. Two different mustard, and a spoonful of horseradish. Kid set down the plates, then pulled out enough napkins for an army.
Jerk eyed Tiny’s iced tea, it was nearly full. He got himself coke. Kid was leaning on the counter, sawing into the second steak. Jerk was confused until he noticed that Tiny’s plate had one fork and the other, two.
“I only want a little. I thought we could split it,” Kid said, eyes smiling and so bright as they looked at Jerk. They took a cube of fried, salted meat and dipped it in horseradish, their “Mmm” cracking in their throat like a cat’s purr. Jerk shared some of his coke with them.
“This is great, Kid.” Tiny couldn’t lie about food. “A real supper.”
Tiny ate the slab of bologna quickly and methodically. He hadn’t been eating as much as he’d like, Jerk could tell. Tiny groaned as he stood up. He removed his bulk from behind the counter, grabbed a newspaper, and turned towards the bathroom.
“Hey Tiny, can we fix the fan in there? It’ll help with the smells.”
“Sure, I’ll have the facility manager call around for someone to fix it.”
“Who’s the facility manager?”
“You, Jerk.” Tiny disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
-
Help Wanted
The sign was red, with the white block HELP WANTED letters and a rectangle for a note outlined in black. Jerk wrote “SEE: JERK” in clean block letters on the rectangle. He taped it on the inside of the door as the mid-morning rush began.
“I hope we get a lot of applicants.” Kid leaned against the counter, coffee in hand.
“You should.” Tiny was behind the counter at the register. “You’ve got 50 hours in here this week.” His voice was genuine.
“Kid’s saving our asses.” Jerk had started straightening soup cans in D after putting up the sign.
“Did Paul and Mary say when Paulie was coming over to help Kid get the deli back up and running?” Jerk looked at Tiny while he asked, then to Kid. “They want training.”
“Should be here soon.” Tiny looked over at the counter. The display case was dark now, everything thrown out. Kid’s bologna steaks were the last thing worth eating. A flowerbed waiting for spring.
Door opens, bell rings.
“You’re looking for help?” Sad Eyes.
Paulie shook his head. “This is a nightmare.” The bridge of Paulie’s nose was high and his thinning hair shimmered under the florescent lights.
“Norma kept it clean.” Tiny’s arms were crossed. “We just had to toss the meat when she got sick and didn’t come back.”
Paulie gestured around the deli. “You didn’t come back here and scrub every day while she was gone. I’m not sure you scrubbed at all.” He looked around.
“I want to learn this stuff. Tell me what I need to do.” Kid was leaning against a counter.
Paulie looked around and started pointing. “Everything needs to get scrubbed down and sanitized. Hot soapy water, wipe it down, then disinfect.” Kid was taking notes. He pointed at the slicer. “Every single piece of that comes apart. Wash everything until it looks clean, then wash it one more time.”
Next he looked at the cooler. “Every shelf out. Scrub them down. If you don’t take care of that empty cooler smell now it’s never leaving.” He pointed at the display case. “Same goes double for that.”
Tiny seemed insulted. “There’s no smell.”
“There is. If you can smell it, it’s already too late.” Paulie moved on. “Check every condiment, seasoning, and dry good. If it’s even close to expired, toss. Write down everything you toss or is low.”
“That’s going to take the rest of the day, Paulie.” Kid looked around.
“I’ll be here with you, we’ll get this done.”
Sad Eyes was working as an aide at a nursing home in Arrow already, but he could work 7 a.m. till noon every day. He was excited to see activity in the deli and to hear the sandwiches would be coming back in-house soon.
“Roxy uses too much mayo.” He explained.
The next one wasn’t as smooth.
“Clark.” Jerk’s stomach tensed before he set his voice cold.
“Buddy!” Clark’s smile was warm, like he never left. Like—Jerk shut that thought out. Clark had been running a small betting circle out of The News while he worked there.
“We had to make a rule because of you.”
“Oh, what was that?” Clark’s eyes sparkled.
“No crimes on the clock, Clark. That rule’s got your name on it.”
“Oh.” Clark looked down.
“Still making books?” Last time, Clark left in handcuffs.
“No.” Clark looked at Jerk as he said it. “I’m almost done with my probation. I thought seeing your name maybe The News had passed down a generation.” Clark looked back to where Tiny was talking with Kid and Paulie.
“You know the job.” Jerk stated a fact.
“Has it changed?” Clark smiled, like they were friends. Jerk stared at him like a bedbug crawling across a tenant’s headboard. The smile faded.
Clark’s voice dropped, he leaned in. His aftershave hadn’t changed. It smelled like standing close to him during late-night conversations about Heinlein. “Buddy, I don’t want to cause another problem between you and your old man.”
“I’m not your Buddy anymore, Clark.” Jerk leaned back. He wanted to run. “You have a few gigs?” Clark always did.
Clark nodded. “Listen, If it’s going to be awkward between us.”
“Why would it be awkward?” Jerk looked back at Kid. They were staring intently at Paulie as he gestured at the kitchenette, head shaking.
“No reason. I have a wife now. Little girl on the way.” Clark’s voice shrugged for him.
“I know. Everyone’s heard.” Jerk stared at the back of Clark’s head in the hyperbolic mirror. “How is ‘Crazy’ Becky?”
“Jerk-” Clark paused, as if he had more to say. Maybe something he should have said two years ago. “I could really use the money.” He didn’t say it. Coward.
“Floater to start. You know all the roles so we call you when we need you.”
It was dark out before Kid came out as Paulie left. “Meat comes tomorrow. Prepackaging, maybe.” They wiped their brow as they sat on the second stool behind the counter.
“Got a few solid hires and a few high school kids.” Jerk looked at where the sign was still posted. He looked at his paperwork. “Oh and a college student. Your wish is coming true.”
“You OK?” Kid looked at him as they asked. Head tilting.
“Of course I am. I’m always OK.”
Kid pulled on their soaked shirt and left it bunched high on their chest. “Liar.” They laughed. “One guy came in, you turned white, but talked a long time.”
“Clark.” Jerk gripped his stool. “We were close. Once.”
“Ah.” Kids bright eyes were curious. “Did you… want to…”
“No.” Jerk’s tone was flat and decisive. “It’s not worth talking about.”
“So pretty close.” Kid smirked.
“No!” Jerk pushed past and went out to Aisle D, sorting the ramen and soup. “Clark was just someone I trusted who ended up… screwing up.”
Kid checked a customer out and looked over at Jerk as they left. “Screwing up?”
“Made books. Ran it out of the store. Busted, September three years ago.” Jerk moved back to the cooler and started facing the bottles outward. “Tiny cut him loose. He and I fought over it. Clark pled, got community service. Probation.”
“You didn’t move like he screwed up. You moved like he betrayed you. He leaned in to say something and you jumped back.”
“He knows the job, OK?” He knocked bags of chips on the floor as he rearranged a shelf of them. “I don’t need to explain this decision.” He picked them up and carefully arranged them.
“I’ll let it drop. But…” Kid looked at Jerk, and then the door.
“Yeah?”
“I’m keeping an eye on him.”
-
Fugazi
Ilium, New York. Late August 1995.
The bus moved with the stop and pull motion of a winning tug of war played over miles. Kid swayed with Jerk. Jerk swayed with Late. They all swayed with the bus.
Jerk felt a hand slipping into his as they rode. He stiffened, then relaxed. He looked over at Kid, and squeezed their hand. “Thanks for coming with me and Late.”
“Books! Music! It’s a chance to see you in your native environment!”
“That’s The News.” Kid could see the corner of Jerk’s mouth trying to curl slightly.
They held hands the rest of the way.
Jerk had gone over to the book side of the store. Kid was flipping through a box of new vinyl releases after Late moved on to the box to the right.
“So this Clark guy…” Kid spoke first.
“Wait, why are we talking about Jerk’s–the bookie.” Late shot a sideways glance to Kid, alarmed, then looked at where Jerk had gone. “Did he come in?”
“Applied.” Kid said. “I watched them talk. He leaned in and Jerk leaned back. Way back.” Kid pulled up a record, realized it wasn’t what they thought, and slid it back down. “He’s going to be a floater.”
Late swore under his breath. “Christ, Jerk. Don’t be a martyr.” He pushed back, moved right to the next box of records and began flipping through them. “How did Tiny react?”
“Stared at Jerk for 10 seconds and then said ‘You’re the hiring manager.’”
“Look, Kid. I’m not specul– It would be rude to figure out my best friend’s emotions before he did, OK?” Late moved right another box, Kid followed.
“I just want to know wha–”
“Kid! Late! How wonderful to see you!” Came a bright and cheerful voice behind them. They turned.
Ms. Dunworth stood there, clutching a copy of Fugazi’s Repeater to her pea-green cardigan.
“That’s a really great album, Ms Dunworth. Getting a gift?” Late asked.
She clutched the album a little tighter. “Oh no! This is mine. I love the energy!” Her eyes were alight.
“Right on.” Late nodded his head.
“Ms. Dunworth, I thought that was your convertible on the street.” Jerk had snuck up on Kid and Late. He pointed at her album. “I have that on cassette, it’s great.”
“Kid said Clark’s a floater, Jerk.” They were flipping through the R section of Used Tapes.
Jerk shot a glare at an oblivious Kid at the front of the store who was talking to Ms. Dunworth, and then to Late. “He knows the job and he has flexible availability.”
“He hurt my best friend. I don’t know how, but I know he did.” Late pulled out a Ramones tape he’d seen a million times and pretended to care. Two dollars. “You were morose for months after he was busted, and this is you I’m talking about here.” He put the tape back.
Jerk ignored him.
“Jerk, I know–”
“So did he, Late.” Jerk moved to another section.
On the way back, Kid slipped their hand into Jerk’s again. He didn’t stiffen, he just swayed with them and the bus.
-
Boycuts
The Squat.
“May I read in here?” Kid was standing at Jerk’s open door. They were wearing sweatpants and a tattered vintage Institute hoodie Jerk would have written off as a rag if they didn’t wear it almost every night.
Jerk looked around his room. His desk and chair were as over-encumbered with books as his shelves. Stacks of comic boxes covered an ottoman he’d gotten from a tenant who moved out. There was only one comfortable place Kid could read. He looked around again, like an alternative might appear. “You mean next to me?” His eyes were wide.
“I could sit on a pile of books if you want.” Kid pointed to a stack near the door that Jerk had dirty clothes on top of. “The textbooks could work.”
Jerk looked at the pile of textbooks, and then at Kid. “You’ll get sore fast.” He moved over and rearranged the pillows to give Kid room. They slid onto the mattress next to him with a few zines they’d gotten at the record store. Jerk reread the same two pages three times before he remembered to turn the page.
“Hey, check this out!” Kid leaned over, showing him a zine. “Boycuts for Butches!” The first article had photocopied photos drawn over illustrating a technique for a ‘Boy’s Cut’ and the next an article was a crudely detailed buzz-cut technique. “I could cut my own hair!”
“It’s easier if someone helps you.” Jerk pointed to where those exact words were written boldly and underlined. “Anyway, just go to a barber.”
Kid made a dismissive noise. “They figure out I’m queer and ‘not a guy’ and they’ll refuse. ‘We’re not trained to cut your hair.’ ‘There’s a great salon down the street, honey!’” Their tone dripped.
“Even at Dapper Jack’s?” Jerk went there.
“Especially at Dapper Jack’s.” Kid grimaced like they were tasting bile. They rubbed their cheek. “I need to get a consistent supply of juice, then I’ll pass and…” Kid’s words trailed off and they sat in silence. Jerk closed his eyes, leaning back and listening to the rasp as Kid turned the pages of their zines.
He felt their hand slide into his. He stirred and opened his eyes. “So what’s this?” Jerk squeezed Kid’s hand. “Keeps happening.” Kid squeezed back. “Afraid of getting lost?”
“It’s comfortable. You’re… comfortable.” They sighed through a half smile before looking faux serious, their voice low. “And as you may have noticed, I’m not like the other guys.” They leaned their head against him. “Anyone ever just… felt right?”
“Once.” Jerk stiffened at the memory. “No, twice.” He squeezed their hand. “Right-er the second time.”
“You don’t mean?” Kid smiled, bright eyes dancing.
“Maybe.” Jerk turned pink and looked away.
Kid squeezed his hand. “Clark was the first?”
“Dammit Late.” Jerk swore under his breath, still looking away.
“Not Late. You.” Kid squeezed again. “You’re not the black box you think you are.”
Someone honked down on Vonnegut, then again after a minute, leaning on it the second time. Cabbie picking up a fare.
“Clark… We could talk for hours.” Jerk couldn’t meet Kid’s gaze. “He knows so many things. I thought he was like me. I could talk to him from the end of my shift until his shift was over. I’d forget to go and sleep. I…” Jerk sucked in his snot before clearing his throat, an ugly sound. “Fuck you, Clark.”
“Jerk, don’t–” They didn’t finish.
“He told me he was going to leave his girlfriend. Move into The Squat. We’d…” Jerk’s eyes wavered. “We didn’t talk about what would happen next. He’d push it off.”
“And then?”
“Then one day I find out his ‘crazy girlfriend’ is actually his devoted fiancée when she shows up to post bail for him at the same time I do.” Jerk looked away. “I wasn’t special. He was never going to choose me over her.”
“So why hire him back after Tiny fired him?”
“I… He knows the job?” Jerk didn’t even know. “I froze. Giving him a job seemed like the quickest way to make him go away.” He shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”
He reached over Kid and picked up ‘Boycuts for Butches.’ He flipped through.
“Would you cut my hair? If I cut yours?”
Kid blinked. “What?”
“Would… you… cut…” Jerk began repeating each word clearly and distinctly.
“I know what you said but what? Why? Go to Dapper Jack’s.”
“If they won’t cut your hair, I don’t want them cutting mine.” Jerk pointed at his head, where his habit of running his hands through his hair had made his cowlicks stick out defiantly. “It’s not like you’ll make this mess any worse.”
“What if I mess up?”
“That’s why they give you buzz-cut directions.” Jerk pointed at the pile. “Any other cool zines in there?”
-
Circle Mall
The bus kicked and sputtered up the hill past Foundry as they headed toward Circle Mall, hands held.
“So you wrestled?” Jerk gave Kid’s hand a squeeze.
“Started in middle school.” The bus topped the hill, passing a discount store that had seen better days. “Gave me an excuse to wear a unitard. Kept things ‘under control.’”
“Wearing one now?”
Kid smiled. “Tried that, but they’re not very practical for day-to-day life.” They tugged at their collar, revealing a strap from what they were wearing. “Sports bra, racerback. Elastic sewn in a couple spots.”
The bus stopped and sputtered. Bowling alley. A few people moved to get off. Kid rested their head against Jerk when the bus heaved onward again.
There were three places in the mall that served pizza, but Jerk refused to eat at two of them, favoring the hole-in-the-wall spot tucked away in the back of the mall’s half-abandoned food court. They each got a slice of pizza and a coke—big New York-style slices that they blotted with napkins to soak up the grease before anointing them with red pepper and a dusting of Parmesan.
“What did you do, science competitions? Spelling bees? I know!” Kid’s voice cracked. “School literary magazine!” Their crust crunched as they bit into it.
“I went to Academy. After school, it was all sports or marching around.” Jerk shrugged. “I’d go to The News after school and do my homework.”
“Academy?” Kid gave a mock salute. “What did you do to Tiny and Norma?”
“Do? I asked to go there.” Jerk turned his head, discreetly trying to work a piece of red pepper out from between two molars with his thumbnail. “I did a year in Ilium High. Didn’t enjoy it.” He wiped the fiery remains of the flake on his paper plate. “Thought I’d fit in better.”
“It work?”
Jerk shook his head and then shrugged. “Uniforms can only do so much.” He adjusted his straw. “Teenage boys will find ways to hate on each other.”
“They make fun of you for being queer?” They wiped their face, brushing crumbs off. “Before I got kicked out by my stepdad at 16, my semi-official name at Locks High was ‘Dyke Bitch.’” Kid made a motion like they were straightening a shirt and tie. “Didn’t quite fit, but I still decided to wear it with pride.”
Jerk made a face at the mention of ‘Dyke Bitch’ and then his mouth hung open for a moment. “I— Huh. That didn’t occur to me.”
“What didn’t?”
“That I might be queer.”
Kid blinked. They tilted their head. Blinked again. Sipped their coke.
“I never had crushes like other people. Never got the whole ‘love at first sight’ thing. Took me a while to realize I was even supposed to.”
He looked at Kid, something raw in his expression–an earnestness they hadn’t seen before. Like he’d stumbled into a question he hadn’t realized he needed to ask.
“Boy. Girl. Anyone. Never happened.” He looked away. “Figured it never would.”
“But who would you think about about when you…”
Jerk said the name of a journalist who covered politics. “I used to imagine them interviewing me while I did. They always asked such great questions.”
“I’m not sure if that’s weird or endearing.”
The mall fountain was dry and barren of a single penny.
“No wishes will be made today,” Jerk said, sitting on a bench facing it.
Kid sat beside him, elbows on knees, swishing the last of their coke and ice around in their cup. “You planning on making wishes today?”
“Wouldn’t come true.” He motioned at the fountain. “Made plenty of wishes here and none did, fountain’s defective.”
“Maybe your wishes were too selfish. What did you wish for?”
“To be normal.”
Kid laughed. “Aiming for the stands with that one, Mr 60 Minutes.” They pulled a penny out of their pocket and turned it over in their fingers. “Should’ve gone to Harmony Commons.” Kid flipped the penny. “Quality wish fulfillment.”
“No bookstore. Never saw the point.” Jerk leaned back, supporting himself with his arms, elbows locked. “Get lots of wishes fulfilled?”
“Just one.” Kid mimicked Jerk’s position and stared at the fountain. “Took lots of tries. Wished I wasn’t a—” Kid stopped. “Know what happened?”
“You woke one morning and weren’t one?”
Kid stood up and stretched, arms wide, smiling. “Better. I realized I’d never been one.”
Jerk stood up as Kid pitched the penny into the empty fountain. “Guess that’s one wish made.” He looked at the penny where it had come to rest, shining under a spotlight—molten copper, like Kid’s eyes. He looked away. “What for?”
“I’ll tell you when it comes true.”
“It’s always the same moves at the start.” Jerk said, watching the ghosts move on screen while Kid jerked the joystick. It was just them and the arcade attendant, half dozing behind the prize counter. “Like people.”
“People don’t always move the same.” Kid said. Ghosts were chasing them.
“Left.” Jerk said. Kid pushed the joystick left. Inexplicably, two ghost went right. “See, like people.” Jerk’s face was thoughtful. “It’s about where they’re expecting to go next, not where they need to.”
“Still didn’t help.” Kid said as they steered almost immediately into a ghost. They held up a quarter. “You want to play?”
“Nah, I don’t want to be here for 45 minutes.”
They nearly walked into McNally coming around a corner as they were leaving.
“Jerk. Jerk’s friend.” McNally’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Name’s Kid.” Kid didn’t shrink.
“Sure it is.” McNally barely glanced at Kid. “So is it true? The deli counter has reopened?” McNally made a lip smacking noise, wet and squishy. “It’s been too long since I’ve had one of Tiny’s specials.”
Jerk jerked his thumb towards Kid. “Paulie’s teaching Kid to run it.”
McNally’s eyes lit up the way a cat’s did when they spotted a bird. He turned to Kid, slow and deliberate, like he was actually seeing them for the first time. “Is that right?” His eyes flicked over them, calculating. “That’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young. Tiny must be fond of you.”
“He knows I can do the job.” Kid crossed their arms, chin set.
“Then please do.” McNally looked at Jerk. “The city doesn’t run right without Tiny’s specials.” He kept his eyes on Jerk the whole time he said it before turning back to kid.
Jerk looked at his watch, they had an out. “We’ve got a bus.” He motioned to Kid. “Com’on, we’ve only got a minute.”
“Tell Tiny he’ll be getting an order soon!” McNally shouted after them as they hurried towards the stop.
They had more than a minute to catch the bus, but not much more.
“Guy creeps me out.” Kid exhaled the words as they let their shoulders relax finally. They were nearly alone on the bus.
“McNally? You get used to him.”
“I don’t want to get used to him.” Kid shifted in their seat. “I want to understand what I’m getting into.” Kid hesitated. “I feel like I’ve stepped into something that’s been running a long time without me.”
Jerk put his hand where they could reach it. “I can’t explain it… it’s Ilium stuff.”
“Ilium stuff.” Kid thought about it. “You mean like the Vanderkill Witch? Dragging people under?” The bus came to a stop in front of a half-empty strip mall and paused there for the thirty seconds required by the schedule as no one got on or off.
“Ilium has ru– No.” Jerk stopped and thought. “Not rules. Patterns.” He struggled for the words.
“Patterns?” Kid studied him for a second before finally reaching over, fingers curling around his. They squeezed.
“The same things happening over and over. Sandwich deliveries. People offering themselves to the Witch. Burning the Horse.” He made a face. “People drinking from the river for luck.”
They’d passed the discount store and were easing down the hill back into Foundry, the low gear rattling the bus and them.
“We’re doing all these rituals, each a small prayer Ilium will never change.”
Mileage Reimbursement
-
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.”
-
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?”
-
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.
External Partnerships
-
Intentional
The Squat. Bathroom. Late September 1995.
“Jerk, I am so sorry.”
“Why? Cowlicks are my hair’s personality.”
Jerk looked in the bathroom mirror again. His bangs were straight enough and the hair on the left side was tame, but the right? The hair stuck out from his head like shrub long gone wild. He ran his hand through the shrub. “If the other side did the same thing, it’d look cool.”
Kid shook their head. “Not really.” The cut Jerk gave them was a touch too short on the top, but they’d teased it and it looked great. Same directions. Something about the cut made their face look longer, jaw sharper. It fit them.
Kid considered his head, squinting one eye and framing his face with their thumbs and index fingers. “Got an idea. You trust me?” They began digging through trimmer attachments before he answered.
Jerk glanced at the mirror, then at Kid. “No reason not to.” The toilet lid made a sharp clack against the seat as he sat on it in surrender. He took his glasses off and held them in his hands. “Please don’t make me look stupider.” He said, looking up at Kid. Their shape was blurry, and he hoped he didn’t he look as nervous as he was. He felt as exposed as a rat in the middle of Livingston Alley.
Kids snapped on an attachment and switched on the trimmers. Jerk closed his eyes. “This will look intentional, promise,” they said, moving in with the trimmer. “Tilt your head.”
Jerk tilted his head and braced as the buzz of the trimmer grew loud in his ear, clutching his glasses tight.
“Do it.”
-
Trade Secret
Door opens, bell rings. Leaves skitter in.
Tiny glanced up from his crossword. “Nice haircuts.” He went back to it for a moment before looking up at Jerk again. “You let Kid do that?”
Sad Eyes was packing in his lunch, his shift over. “You look like Maynard.” He smiled with approval.
“I like it.” Jerk ran his hands through his hair. It was shaved on the sides and a messy shock of hair on top. “Kid did a good job.”
Tiny couldn’t stop staring at Jerk’s hair. He shook his head. “Mort parted your hair on the wrong side one time, and you accused him of malfeasance while you were still in the chair.”
“Malpractice.” Jerk corrected him. “How do you forget what side a person parts their hair on?” A fire engine passed on 4th, heading north. He grit his teeth.
Sad Eyes leaned in while Jerk and Tiny continued arguing barber malpractice. “Your egg salads are fantastic, Kid.”
Kid’s copper penny eyes brightened. “Thanks! My recipe,” they half-whispered back, smile wide.
“When you grow it back, you’ll have cowlicks everywhere.” Tiny said crossing his arms. “It’ll be worse than your baby pictures.”
“I’ll just wear a hat when I grow it back.” Jerk said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot, automatically starting to make a new pot.
“You never wear hats.” Tiny looked at Kid, hands raised as if he was holding up his confusion as evidence. “He’ll wear a hat now?”
“I’ve got a Mets cap he can wear.” Jerk had never seen the Mets cap in Kid’s stuff, and they didn’t have much.
Tiny was disgusted. “The Mets? I’d rather he shaved his head.” He flashed 5 fingers at Sad Eyes as he left. “Truck tomorrow. 5am.”
“Not a Mets fan. Got it.” Kid grinned as they backed away from the counter. “I’m gonna check and see how Star’s doing in the Deli.”
“I think a warmer on the Bunn’s going.” Jerk complained. “Coffee’s lukewarm.” He took another sip and grimaced. “I replaced the thermostat on that one last year.”
“Why’s the facility manager telling me this? Get it fixed.” Tiny grumbled under his breath.
Like starlings taking flight in unison, three customers decided to check out. Jerk paced Aisle C patiently while Tiny worked and silently walked through the process of replacing the burner in his head. The last customer had food stamps, slowing the big man down.
Kid returned as the bell rang for the last customer. “Tiny, we’re out of sandwiches again.” They scratched at some scrubby sideburn whiskers recently graduated from fuzz.
“Sad Eyes had Star hide one before we ran out.” Tiny shook his head. “We haven’t done sandwich numbers like this since before Norma’s first surgery.”
“I’ll come in earlier, make more–”
“No.” Tiny leaned back, crossing his arms. “Halve the Italian clubs and the ham and Swiss numbers.” His eyes were unfocused, he was running numbers in his head. “Focus on the egg salad. They’re the one people ask after when we run out.”
Jerk scratched the bare side of his head. “Those take the longest, we could have Roxy–”
“No!” Kid and Tiny reacted simultaneously.
“We give her the reci–” Jerk, being practical.
“Screw that–”
“Recipe’s mine–”
Tiny and Kid talked over each other. Kid stopped and looked at Tiny. He led.
Tiny cleared his throat. “Recipe’s is Kid’s trade secret and since Kid’s employed by The News as–” He paused, thinking. “‘Assistant Manager, Deli’,” He nodded and smiled at the title he’d just created. “We have exclusive rights.”
Kid looked at Tiny for a moment before nodding. “Paulie talked me up to his mom and dad after his last visit, but I keep telling them no when they ask me to join the kitchen, or–” Kid shrugged. “I like bussing and washing dishes. Two nights of no thinking, just doing.”
Jerk wondered what Kid thought of when they weren’t thinking. He always found himself factoring the differences between different powers of primes.
“Tiny, sticking around long enough I can go to Kelly’s? They should have the parts I need.”
Tiny nodded, then paused, thinking. “Got a delivery you two can handle on the way.”
“Sandwich delivery?” Kid tilted their head slightly and raised an eyebrow.
Tiny huffed. “Look who’s getting curious. No. You still might drool, though.” He looked at Jerk. “Carmen needs a refill. Usual mix.”
“It’s two weeks late.” Jerk knew the normal frequency.
Tiny shrugged. “Not our concern.” He looked at Kid. “Pay Kid the standard rate.”
-
Pall Mall
The second floor hallway of The Broadside was filled with the stink of Pall Malls and the symphonic rise and fall of a typewriter. Jerk stifled a sneeze. He hated the crematory stink of cigarettes. “New tenant’s going to die of emphysema before he finishes that book,” he muttered.
“So it goes.” Kid said, waving their hand in front of their face as if to dispell the smell.
Their destination was at the opposite end of the main hall, Suite 201. “Broadside Properties.” Kid said, reading the gold leaf lettering on the inside of the frosted chicken wired glass panel on the door. “Sounds respectable.”
“Of course it does.” Jerk said, toying with the key. The lock was tricky; another task for the facility manager to add to his to-do list. “It’s a respectable business.” The lock clicked open, he turned the door handle, and reached inside, turning on the light before going inside.
“Of course,” Kid’s seriousness was theatrical as they walked behind Jerk into the suite. “With perfectly normal dealings.”
“We do what we do.” Jerk said.
Kid studied the room. The reception area looked like it was expecting the secretary to return at any moment. There was a small cabinet with an old electric hot pot, tea cups, and a box of tea in the corner next to the secretary’s desk. Behind the desk was a painting of The Broadside as it must have looked 90 years ago, soon after construction. No windows.
The door behind them locked with a loud click. Kid jumped, startled, eyes on Jerk and the door. “Sorry,” Jerk apologized. “Just in case anyone tries the handle because the light’s on.”
“Claustrophobia.” Kid said. The looked around again. “Almost everything in here looks new.”
“Tiny brings his out-of-town business associates up here.” Jerk had walked over to a door to the left of the desk marked ‘Storage.’ “Keeps it up to date.”
“‘Storage?’ Does that room have a window or something?” Kid looked back at the exit. Jerk had unlocked the ‘Storage’ door’s deadbolt. A light turned on automatically. A two-foot hallway ended in another door with a push button combination lock and another deadbolt. Kid inched back towards the exit. “Can I wait outside?”
Jerk turned and blinked. “You want to get some water and make tea?” He was winding the hall door key off the keyring. “When you come back you can peek inside, OK?”
He handed Kid the key. “There’s styrofoam cups and lids in the cabinet.”
Kid stood there, looking at the key in their hand for a second. “OK.”
-
The Van Renwyck Room
When Kid opened the suite door with the hot pot full of water to make tea, they walked into a wall of unmistakable aroma, like old leather and molasses. The Pall Malls down the hallway could only dream of containing such richness. Sunlight flooded out the doorway.
They wandered into the ‘Storage’ room, dazed, hot pot full of water still in hand.
“Welcome to the Van Renwyck Room.” Jerk said, sprawled in a large chair with a leg swung over a leather arm. The room was large, the heavy curtains pulled back and light flooding the room. It looked out on the same corner The News did.
Kid considered him. “I’ve never seen you this relaxed. You look at home in here.”
“I’ve had access since I was 12.” He gestured around the room. “What did you think was in here?” He ran his knuckles over the wood paneling absent-mindedly.
“I had no idea.” Kid said, awestruck. There was a small bar and a floor to ceiling humidor, housing columns of numbered drawers behind glass. A small cedar box sat on the table next to it. “Is this Tiny’s idea of heaven?”
“Something like that.” Jerk said, gesturing at the hot pot in Kid’s hands. “Still want tea?”
Kid looked down at the hot pot, suddenly remembered. “Not really.” They put it down on the bar and looked around again. “You showing off or there a hidden safe in here?”
“Safe? Maybe.” Jerk gestured at the humidor. “We’re here for some cigars.”
Kid looked at the humidor. “Is that where he keeps the good ones? Like the evening on the roof?”
“That’s Bin 23.” He got up and walked over to the humidor. Kid joined him as he opened the doors and the aroma’s force trebled. “Get two cigar tubes, they’re under the bar.” He found Bin 23 at waist height and pulled it out. “There’s only two left in the open packet, perfect.”
He took the tubes from kid. They smelled like cedar and oil. “Get two foil packs from Bin 17 and one from Bin 5.” He slid the cigars into the cases and screwed them shut while Kid grabbed the three packets. Each was only marked with the number of the bin they came out of.
“Do these come from–?” Kid let the question hang.
“Most come from places south of Florida.” Jerk shrugged. “Bin 11’s from the Philippines right now, I think.”
“Put them in the cedar box.” He checked the gauges inside the humidor before he closed the doors. “Can’t leave this open too long or Tiny will bitch at me about the humidity.”
“I took the last packet out of Bin 5.” Kid said, closing the top of the cedar case. “Should we tell Tiny?”
“Tiny already knows.” Jerk tapped his temple. “He tracks the stock in his head.” He offered Kid the cigar tubes. “Payment. Tiny’s Number 23s.”
Kid took them. “Two of these for a delivery?” The tubes quickly disappeared into a pocket. “No complaints.”
“It’s one, but I normally trade mine for books or cassettes, and I know you enjoy them.” He picked up the cedar box. “Take this, there’s a backpack out in the drawer of the desk, I’m going to close the room up.”
After placing the cedar box in the backpack and slinging it over their shoulder, Kid got curious enough to check the other two doors in the reception area. One said “Private” which was a small storage closet with empty shelves except for some instant coffee and powered creamer. In the other–
“That’s quite the desk.” Kid said, peeking in the door. A massive oak desk and high backed leather chair dominated the room, along with two chairs that matched the ones in the Van Renwyck room for guests. The whole office was wood paneled and dim from the closed curtains.
“Custom built for Tiny’s great-grandfather.” Jerk caught himself chewing the side of his thumb and stopped himself. “You satisfied with the tour so far?”
Kid adjusted the backpack. “I’m not even sure what I’m touring.”
Jerk shrugged. “Ilium.”
-
Crossing Prospect
Jerk’s ease had evaporated before the symphony of tobacco stopped blunting the city’s stinks. He had his hands in his pockets and was walking fast. He hadn’t spoken in blocks.
“I’m still upset you wanted to give my recipe away to Roxy.” Kid said when they were almost to Prospect. “An extra cigar doesn’t make up for it.”
Jerk shoved his hands deeper in his jeans pockets and grabbed handfuls of the fabric, shoulders stiffening. “I’m too practical.” They crossed Prospect. Three sleepy blocks until they turned onto St. George Street.
“Right, Roxy would use it for–”
“I’m just too practical.” Jerk’s voice shook. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Looked at his shoes. “I always think if it works, it solves the problem. I forget other people have stakes. Roxy’d use it for her egg salads, because it’s so good.” Jerk looked up at Kid, his shoulder locked, his arms rigid. “I get it. I’m sorry.” His pupils were constricted, his gray eyes combination dials.
Kid touched his arm. Jerk was shaking, eyes on his feet again. “What’s wrong?”
“I keep replaying it. Too practical. Hurts people.” Jerk said quietly. He looked up at Kid. “Hurt you.” He pulled his arm away. “Please, let’s go.”
Jerk walked away, shoulders still rigid. Kid caught up, and grabbed his arm again. “Honey, I don’t understand.”
Jerk stopped dead. “Are we like that?” He looked down and away from Kid.
“I…” Kid hesitated. “Do you want to be?”
Jerk stared at the sidewalk. “I don’t know how.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Kid squeezed his arm. “A little at a time, OK?” Jerk pulled his hands out of his pockets, shoulders relaxing a little.
He looked up and glanced at them before nudging his head southward. “Com’on, you’ll like Carmen.” His voice was flatter.
They reached the next corner. Kid slipped their hand into his.
-
Maiden & Maid
St George Street went a block before the St George Green opened up to their left, bracketed by Second and Third. It was surrounded by an iron fence, a gate with a chain and padlock securing it.
“Always seemed welcoming when I walked through this neighborhood.” Kid motioned at the gate. “The chains give it a real ambiance.”
“Not really a park.” Jerk gestured at the homes surrounding the green. “It’s their lawn. The ones who look out their windows, anyway.”
They crossed Second, and then across St George Street. Jerk released Kid’s hand, motioned to the building on the southwest corner of the intersection. “Carmen’s is in the old servant’s quarters around back.”
The building rose on the corner like a brick fortress trying to keep the city out–or the residents inside. On the corner was a turret with windows too narrow to be useful or trusted. The rest looked like they had been staring over the corner and St George Green so long they’d grown bored.
“This place? Street kids say it’s a convent.” Kid said, looking up. The building loomed over them, waiting to rap their knuckles with a ruler.
“They ran out of nuns in the sixties.” Jerk said, shrugging. “Apartments now.” A courtyard behind the building was enclosed by ivy covered brick walls and the square and plain servant’s quarters. They entered through a grate door in the wall that glided open and closed easily and silently, the only sound the gentle rattle of the latch.
The cobblestone courtyard was empty except for them and fallen leaves. The main building’s back door was a drab brown that matched the brick. The main door into the servants quarters was the lush green of Kentucky Bluegrass. The small plaque beside the door read Maiden & Maid.
“This is Maiden & Maid?” Kid said reverently. “I heard they do drag shows here.”
“They do those upstairs, I think.” Jerk said. He held the door open. “After you.”
Kid stepped down into the darkness. The smell of coffee and faint cigarette smoke rose to meet them.
“Welcome home.” Said a shape moving tables. Her voice was lilac and gravel, with a whisper of decades of sizzling drags off cigarettes as accompaniment.
Jerk stepped in beside Kid. “Jerk! Your hair!” Kid’s eyes were adjusting. Their host’s hair was thick and white shot through with black, slicked back and perfectly coifed like a 30s leading man. Her skin was the color of sandstone at dusk. She wore a white man’s dress shirt, open at the collar, shoulders sharply padded. Suspenders held up gray pleated chinos.
Kid stared.
“Thanks for running it down. Who’s this handsome devil you brought with you?” She held out her hand to Kid. “I’m Carmen, you got a name?”
Kid took her hand, Carmen did the work of shaking. “I’m–wow.”
“I agree, but is that your name?” Carmen smirked. Kid blushed.
“That’s Kid you’re flustering.” Jerk ran his hands through his hair. “My barber and our new deli lead.”
Carmen inspected Kid again. “I’d have picked Killer.” She rubbed her chin, then beckoned. “You got my cigars, Kid?”
Kid jumped, reverie broken. “Oh! Sorry.” They unslung the backpack. Carmen walked over to the bar and motioned for them to follow. The bar was heavy dark wood, and a reproduction of The Birth of Venus adorned the rough brick wall behind the bar, dim bulbs on bare sconces on either side.
Kid laid the backpack on the bar and pulled out the cedar case.
“Two packs of Number 17s and one of Number 5s.” Jerk said as Kid laid the three packs out. “Number 5s should be fresher. Not going through the Canaries now.”
Carmen looked at Kid, amused. “These men have never sold me a stale cigar.” Carmen fished in her pocket and brought out a pocket knife, trying to cut the foil.
Kid was staring at the painting. Venus looked familiar. The eyes, mysterious and kind. The smile, sans tea stains. “Is that Ms. Dunworth?” Kid asked.
Carmen stopped sawing at the foil packet. “That’s Evelyn. Painted her before you were born. She’s my Venus. Always.” She looked out the painting like a window into memory. “That was the first time she posed nude for me.” She chuckled at the memory.
Carmen came back to the present, and finished opening the foil pack, drawing a cigar out. “Care to share one with me?” She waved it, offering it to both of them.
“I can’t, we–” Kid said no as their eyes kept saying yes.
“I’ll walk down to Kelly’s.” Jerk said, interrupting. “It’ll clear my head, busy day.” He looked at kid. “I’ll grab you on my way back.”
Carmen had gone around the bar looking for lighter and other kit. “I’ll take good care of Killer.”
Kid touched his arm, head tilted. “You sure?” There was concern in their eyes. “It’s just a cigar.”
“Positive. Enjoy the cigar.”
-
Fresh Cut
Carmen clipped the end of the cigar and rolled it under her nose. “Oh, he wasn’t kidding about them being fresher.” She closed her eyes and inhaled again. “The maple notes come through even stronger now.”
She struck a wooden match and let the sulfur burn off before lifting it to the cigar. “If you use a match, remember to let the sulfur burn off.” She said, noticing Kid studying her preparation. She took three puffs, the coiled smoke rising like an offering to the heavens.
Carmen held the smoke in her mouth before passing it to Kid. She blew out the smoke in a lazy circle, sizing Kid up. “When Tiny said he had a new hire he wanted me to meet, I thought he’d finally hired a leg breaker for collections.” She smirked. “Instead, I get a handsome devil who’s a sandwich prodigy.”
Kid laughed nervously. “Never seen any of those guys around Tiny.” They sniffed the wrapper. Behind the maple: a dry, sharp spice. Almost nutmeg, but meaner. “I just keep the deli running and make sandwiches.” They drew the smoke in. It was sweet, bitter, dry. They held it just long enough for it to sting the back of their throat before exhaling, trying not to cough.
“That makes you a real heavyweight.” Carmen raised her glass in toast. “To Kid, egg salad maestro.” She drained her glass before refilling it with the last from a sweating bottle of tonic water.
“Have you been talking to Paulie? He butters me up like that.” Kid passed the cigar back to Carmen. “I don’t get it. I still have cardboard lining my favorite boots. I’m nobody.” Kid immediately looked embarrassed. “It’s fine. They’re broken in.”
“You’re the one who shows up. Does the work. Keeps your promises.” Carmen leaned in. “Some people call that love.”
Kid glanced at the door.
Carmen ashed into the tray with slow precision. “This delivery deserves more than a thank you.”
Kid tilted their head, eyes cautiously curious. They knew Carmen wasn’t that kind of danger.
Carmen passed Kid the cigar. “It’s not what it sounds like. How would you like to raid my wardrobe? It’s next door along with my studio. You can see my latest work too. Late as Adonis.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love it.” There was an ache in their stomach, like the hunger the first time Jerk offered to feed them. Kid sat with it before a realization hit. “Wait. Late models?”
Carmen’s sly smile returned as she nodded. “He even shows up on time. Usually.”
Carmen held the ashtray like an hors d’oeuvre platter, ashing into it. “I think I even have some boots that will fit your strut.” She motioned. “There’s a passage through the kitchen.”
The passage smelled of perfume, cigarettes, and damp brick. Kid followed, spongy cardboard insoles forgotten.
-
First and Canal
Jerk put Maiden & Maid behind him and kept walking another block before turning south.
The Pour-O-Matic replaced some bespoke, gas-fired monstrosity from Big Neil’s time—the one that caught fire the first time Jerk tried to fix it, fifteen years ago.
He caught himself rubbing the spot where Kid had touched his arm. He put the hand in his pocket.
If there’d ever been any documentation, it was gone by the time he was 10. He’d been making pots of coffee for The News since he was 8, being Tiny’s legs and hands as mass and years accrued.
“Honey.” Not even Norma called him that.
Jerk remembered the terror in Tiny’s eyes, dust-caked fire extinguisher spraying The News’ salvation on the coffee bar while he hollered for Norma to cut the gas that fed it off.
“Honey.” He’d never felt like a Honey until Kid said it.
Three thousand dollars in damages. It could have been worse. It could have been the entire News. It could have been The Broadside.
“Honey.” Why did it feel good?
A sudden screech stopped a foot from him. He looked up at the driver, dazed. He was crossing Saint Martin Street? The driver gestured rudely at him. He mouthed “Sorry.”
“Honey.” The word had rewired something.
What was Kid doing to him? Why?
He’d read the Bunn manual a hundred times before it ever failed. Learned to solder. Electricity was more predictable than gas.
Both were more predictable than Kid.
Nearly to the canal that separated downtown from South Ilium, he saw Mayor Hayden. The mayor was standing on the bridge over the canal, hands on the wrought iron fence that guarded the sides. His combover flapped in the breeze and the front of his shirt was untucked. He stared west toward the river, lips moving like Norma praying the Rosary.
Jerk couldn’t hear till he was almost next to him. “Still water. Dark water. She waits.” He had three days worth of beard, silver and white like the snowcaps of the Himalayas. “She sees me.”
“Mayor Hayden, are you OK?” Jerk asked him, shaking his shoulder. “You look a little lost down here.”
The mayor turned to face him slowly. His bloodshot eyes brightened with recognition. “You’re Tiny’s boy. Tiny’s… Page.” A dark cloud moved over his entire face.
“You’re the Page.”
Jerk’s stomach curdled. He smelled the ghost of incense and mahogany. “I’m not the Page here. This isn’t a Society function, Mayor.” The Mayor had already turned back to the west, lips moving silently.
Jerk shook the Mayor’s shoulder again. “Should I call someone for you? You seem out of it.”
The Mayor turned. “Tiny’s boy. So nice to see you again.” His bloodshot eyes were lucid. He offered his hand to Jerk, who shook it while he studied the Mayor’s face.
“We just spoke a moment ago, Mayor.” He said as he released the Mayor’s hand. “I asked you if you were OK.”
The darkness covered the Mayor’s face again before he spoke. “Just have a lot on my mind. I sacrifice a lot to run this city.” He looked to the west again.
“Ok, but you–”
“I’m fine and need to be on my way. I see her tonight.” The Mayor said, cutting him off. He turned north, toward downtown, pushing past Jerk. “Tonight’s my night. McNally saw to that. Tell your father… tell him she remembers.”
Jerk watched him go. Kelly’s was just to the south of the canal.
“Honey.” He would deal with it later.
He needed to borrow the phone at Kelly’s and tell Tiny what the Mayor had said.
-
Mayor Hayden
September XX, 1995 – Ilium, NY
Radio Scanner Chatter
Time: 14:30 – 15:02 EDT
14:30 EDT
Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Unit 3-4, we’ve got a call for a possible break-in at the Mayor’s office. Reports of suspicious entry—looks like some damage. Respond to City Hall, 433 River Street. Over.”Unit 3-4:
“Copy that, Dispatch. 3-4 en route. ETA five minutes. Over.”
14:36 EDT
Unit 3-4:
“Dispatch, 3-4. We’re on scene at City Hall. Door’s been forced open. I’m going inside to check. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Roger that, 3-4. Keep us posted. Over.”
14:38 EDT
Unit 3-4:
“Dispatch, 3-4. Mayor’s office is a wreck. Papers scattered. Furniture overturned. There’s muddy water all over the floor. No sign of the Mayor. I’m sweeping the building now. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Understood, 3-4. Stay safe. Keep us updated. Over.”
14:42 EDT
Unit 3-4:
“Dispatch, 3-4. Still no sign of the Mayor, but the place is flooded with water—looks like it’s been sitting for hours. Calling in a full investigation team. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Roger that, 3-4. We’ll send tech and forensics. Keep us posted. Over.”
14:48 EDT
Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, Unit 1-5, we’re en route to assist with the break-in at City Hall. ETA ten minutes. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Copy that, 1-5. Meet up with Unit 3-4. They’re requesting a full investigation team. Over.”
14:50 EDT
Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Unit 3-4, we’ve got a new tip. The News called in. One of their runners spotted someone matching the Mayor’s description heading north from the canal on 1st Ave. He was apparently muttering to himself. Be on the lookout. Over.”Unit 3-4:
“Copy that, Dispatch. Did the runner mention anything else about his condition? Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Negative, 3-4. Runner didn’t give further details. Still, it’s worth checking. Over.”Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, Unit 1-5. We’re about two blocks away from 1st Avenue and the canal. We’ll check it out. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Roger, 1-5. Be cautious. The Mayor may be disoriented or in distress. Over.”
14:54 EDT
Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, Unit 1-5. We’re near 1st Avenue and the canal. No sign of the Mayor yet, but we’re canvassing the area. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Copy that, 1-5. Keep an eye out. If you spot someone matching the description, detain them for questioning. Over.”
14:58 EDT
Unit 1-6:
“Dispatch, 1-6. We’ve been flagged down by some street kids here at Prospect Street Bridge. They say a man’s over the railing, like he’s about to jump. They think it’s Mayor Hayden. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“1-6, copy that. Hold your position. Do not approach the Mayor yet. If you can get more details from the witnesses. Over.”Unit 1-6:
“Roger, Dispatch. We’ll talk to the kids. Backup is on the way. Over.”Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, Unit 1-5. We’re about a block away from Prospect Street. ETA two minutes. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Roger, 1-5. Be advised: The Mayor may be disoriented or in distress. Keep it low-key. Over.”Unit 1-5:
“Understood.”
15:00 EDT
Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, 1-5. We’re on Prospect Street Bridge now. Mayor’s leaning over the railing, talking to someone who isn’t there. I’ve got visual, but he doesn’t seem to notice us. 1-6, you copy? Over.”Unit 1-6:
“Copy, 1-5. Be careful—don’t startle him. I’m moving in closer. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“1-5, 1-6, proceed with caution. Make sure he doesn’t make any sudden moves. We’re coordinating a safe response. Over.”Unit 1-5:
“Understood, Dispatch. We’re moving in slow. 1-6, we’ve got this. Over.”
15:01 EDT
Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch, 1-5. Mayor climbed over the rail and is leaning forward, shouting at the water. Can’t make out what he’s saying. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Copy, 1-5. Move in if safe. Fire and EMS en route. River unit ETA fifteen minutes. Over.”
15:02 EDT
Unit 1-5:
“Dispatch! 1-5! The Mayor just raised his hands and shouted ‘I must be with her!’ then he jumped. Repeat, he jumped off the Prospect Street Bridge. Requesting immediate medical and river rescue, now. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Copy, 1-5. Confirming: Mayor Hayden has jumped. EMS and water rescue are en route. Stay on scene. Attempt visual contact. Over.”Unit 1-6:
“Negative, Dispatch. No visual yet. Current’s fast. We’re checking the embankment. Over.”Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“All units in the area, be advised: this is now a critical incident. Secure the bridge, establish a perimeter, and assist rescue crews upon arrival. Over.”Unit 3-4: “Dispatch, 3-4… I can’t believe we let the Witch get the mayor.”
Dispatch (Ilium PD):
“Unit 3-4. Keep the line clear or get off it. Over.”Unit 3-4: “3-4. Copy.”
Bereavement Policy
-
Four-in-Hand
Great Room, The Squat, Early October, 1995
Kid was retying their tie for the third time, adjusting the ends to be even.
“I thought I’d wear this tie to a drag night or something. Not a funeral.”
Kid glanced at the mirror and caught Jerk’s reflection. He was lounging behind them on the old burgundy chaise.
“Technically, it’s a memorial,” Jerk said, reclining with his dog-eared copy of Second Foundation. “A funeral requires a body.” The radiator pinged and banged. A hard freeze had come early.
“Aaugh! I feel like I’m strangling myself!” Kid loosened the tie and pulled it off, throwing it on the floor.
“I want to get this right!”
“Want help, fashion victim?”
Jerk laid his paperback on the seat of the chaise. The Mule could wait.
“I taught Late when he started at Academy,” he said.
Jerk picked up the tie and smoothed it out.
“I’m not telling Carmen you treated a silk tie like that.”
Kid snatched the tie from Jerk’s hand, frowning.
“Late needed help too?”
They turned around and began threading the tie back through their collar.
“I swear, he tried to do bunny ears,” Jerk said with a smirk. Late still tied his shoelaces that way.
“I’ll teach you four-in-hand. It’s the staple of Academy boys.”
Jerk reached around Kid and helped adjust the ends of the tie.
“Wide end is on right, good. You want it to be about a foot longer than the narrow end.”
Kid smelled like sandalwood. They’d dabbed it on their wrists and neck with the same precision they measured out ground mustard seed for their egg salad.
“Bring the wide end over the narrow end, then under,” he guided their hands.
“Over one more time and you make a loop on the front.”
“That’s the part I screwed up. Only went around once,” Kid said.
“Now wide end through loop from underneath and then down?”
Kid’s hands moved confidently as they finished the tie.
Jerk looked over their shoulder, at their work in the mirror, and nodded. “Looks good. I think you were making a square knot before.”
“It’s a little crooked,” Kid said. They loosened and tightened the knot.
“It’s supposed to be a little off-center,” Jerk said, tapping his own knot.
He reached out to tighten Kid’s tie. His fingers brushed Kid’s wrist.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. The radiator pinged.
Kid leaned back against him.
“So just us representing The News?” Kid said, straightening and adjusting the sleeve of their shirt, turning to Jerk.
Jerk missed the sandalwood already.
“Tiny’s in Providence with Norma. Late’s with Sarah in Syracuse.”
Jerk bent to pick up Second Foundation from the chaise.
“You want to take Clark with you? Or should I bring Star?”
They were both downstairs tending the store.
“He’s so polite.” It was an accusation. “Chopping eggs, flashing that pearly-white smile, going on about his house painting business.”
Jerk blinked.
“He’s been fine to you. He enjoys working in the deli and kitchen.” Norma had loved that about Clark.
“He looks at you like–”
Kid’s eyes flicked back to their cuff, and they adjusted it again.
“Like what?”
Jerk gripped the copy of Second Foundation, holding it upside down.
“Like he jerked me around like a loser? Like a chump?” He grimaced.
Kid studied him. They didn’t say it out loud at first.
“Like he’s sorry.”
Jerk looked past Kid at his own reflection.
“It would be nice to hear the words.”
His reflection seemed unconvinced he ever would.
He looked back at Kid.
“Wouldn’t change anything, forget I mentioned the asshole.”
“No? Nothing?”
Kid took the book gently from Jerk’s hands and turned it upright before placing it back.
“Even if he is sorry?”
Jerk looked at Kid. The corner of his mouth curled a little. He could feel it–cheek muscles pulling in a way that usually got misread.
“I’m too comfortable now.”
Kid’s eyes were soft.
Jerk glanced at his watch.
“We need to go. I told Paulie we were supposed to be at his parents’ restaurant already.”
Jerk let Kid lead down the stairs so he could follow in the trace of their sandalwood.
-
Little Man
Paulie had a roommate. The roommate’s name was Doyle. Doyle was keeping lookout.
“Oh. My. God! Jerk, your HAIR!” Doyle’s playful catcall echoed down Fourth Street from a half block away. Jerk lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair. Kid had recently touched it up.
“Yeah! Nice hair, brother!” A guy passing them boomed in agreement, giving a thumb-up. He had an oversized Macho Man t-shirt and jean shorts so low they may have qualified as lederhosen, despite the kiss of ice in the air.
“I’m the barber!” Kid said, turning to smile and wave as the guy continued on.
“Right on, little man!” The man yelled back. Kid beamed.
Doyle flounced down the block to meet them, black velvet Cuban heels tapping like a dance revue. He was wearing a black-on-black silk herringbone suit, with a lace cravat like he was hosting a séance after. Paulie walked behind.
“Oh my god, that hair! So you! And you must be Kid. You’re Kid, right?”
Doyle’s powdered face looked back and forth between them.
“Paulie did not tell me what an absolutely adorable couple you two make!”
“I said they were roommates.” Paulie huffed, catching up.
“Adorable couple!” Doyle was emphatic. He offered his hand to Kid. “I’m so rude, I’m Doyle.” He teased out the “Doy-” so it sounded like “toy.”
Kid shook Doyle’s hand, smiling. “I’m Kid. Doyle? From Carmen’s? She mentioned you.”
“Guilty as charged!” Doyle flourished his hands and fanned himself for a moment, turning to show his profile.
Doyle looked at Jerk again and smirked. “Brothers would have knocked you senseless for that haircut.”
“They would have knocked you senseless for that penciled-on mustache, Doyle.” Jerk gave him a mocking half salute. “How have you been, Cadet?”
Doyle rolled his eyes. The subtle eyeliner and blush made him look like a chalk drawing. “Oh you know, just working on my drag act and trying to get Paulie to join me.”
Paulie sighed and rubbed his temples. “Can we talk about this in the car? We’ve got a memorial to go to.”
Doyle pointed at Paulie in theatrical exasperation. “And, he keeps saying things like THAT when I bring it up.”
-
Arrow Parkway
Paulie had a black Dodge Diplomat. It reminded Jerk of the old Ilium PD cruisers, but with only a six-cylinder it didn’t have the throaty growl of those extinct beasts. He guided it up Prospect Street before taking a right onto the tree-lined Arrow Parkway, heading toward Sacred Heart.
“Doyle, you’re fogging up the windows,” Paulie said, adjusting the vents and defroster.
“The Three Musketeers, Kid! Think about it. You as Porthos, Carmen as Athos, and, of course, myself as Aramis.” Doyle continued, oblivious in the back seat with Kid.
“I can’t,” Kid said, laughing.
“But why? I already have the rapiers!” Doyle flourished his right hand, miming the draw of a sword.
“Can I at least see a show there first?”
Paulie turned up the vent fan on high, drowning out Doyle’s next plea.
“It feels weird, representing the Society for our parents,” Paulie said. “Especially a memorial for Mayor Hayden.”
“I’m already a member,” Jerk said. He peered up through the windshield. “I think it’s snowing.”
“Oh yeah, they made you the Scribe or something, right?” Paulie cracked the window.
“Definitely snowing.” Fat snowflakes were falling on the windshield now. “‘The Page.’ Errand boy. I keep the Ledger too.”
Doyle’s head emerged between them. “Ohhh! Are you two talking about Skull and Crossbows?”
“The Vanderkill Society isn’t like that, Doyle.” Jerk crossed his arms and looked out the passenger window.
“The suicide hotline people?” Kid said, recovering from Doyle abandoning his pleas mid-breath. “‘Don’t Drown. Call,’” Kid said, quoting the posters. “I thought the city ran that.”
“Hayden became our face when he became Mayor.” Jerk turned over his right shoulder to talk to Kid, away from Doyle. “We couldn’t have set up the hotline without him.”
“I hear they do cult rituals above The News,” Doyle whispered to Kid behind his hand, conspiratorially.
“You mean The Van Renwyck Room? I’ve been in there.” Kid scratched their cheek.
Doyle gaped.
“Doyle, it’s their family smoking lounge. I’ve told you that before.” Paulie’d been in it, too.
They came to a stop. A long line of cars had formed in the right lane of Arrow Parkway waiting to turn into the grassy field that served as the overflow lot for Sacred Heart. It was always needed for memorials when the Witch took someone. This was the eleventh since Stephen, by Jerk’s count.
The fat flakes were collecting on the windshield. Doyle leaned back and looked out his window.
Kid wiped away some fog with a fingertip. “They saved Monroe when she called. How do I join?”
The car got quiet.
“It’s open to families who’ve lost someone to the Witch,” Jerk explained. “Ancestor in my case. Uncle in Paulie’s.”
“What about Late?” Kid asked.
“Christ. Poor Late,” Paulie said. He shook his head. “No. He refuses.”
“The line of cars isn’t moving.” Jerk rolled down the window and craned his neck. He couldn’t see anything. “Late doesn’t want to witness readings of The Black Ledger.”
Doyle leaned forward and hissed. “See! Skull and Crossbows!”
The line moved one car up.
Jerk sniffed. “Paulie, you’ve got a pinhole in your heater core.”
Doyle huffed.
“Shit,” Paulie swore. “Sorry, Doyle. How bad?”
Jerk sniffed again. “Not bad, but turn the heat off on the defroster. We have to dry out the inside.” He held his hand out the window, catching snowflakes. “If we can.”
Doyle leaned forward and kissed Paulie on the cheek. “It’s OK, Papa.”
Paulie blushed as he adjusted the windows. He peered ahead. “I think they’re waving cars past the lot.”
The line began crawling forward.
-
Mercywood
“The lot’s mud, we’re asking folks to park on side streets, and please respect driveways, but we’re relaxing enforcement tonight.” Snow collected on the shoulders of the clear disposable poncho and transparent cap cover of the Ilium PD officer assigned to direct cars.
Paulie thanked her and drove on.
“Jerk, can we park at Mercywood?”
Jerk groaned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” He pointed ahead. “Turn on Willard, use the staff gate.”
Paulie turned on the blinker.
“What’s Mercywood?” Kid asked, looking out the window as they turned onto Willard.
“The sign says this is the Pinewood School?”
They looked out the window at the seemingly endless wall of hedge behind wrought iron fencing. “That’s for the rich girls, right?”
Doyle snorted. “You’ve been in the Van Renwyck Room, but not Mercywood?”
“Doyle, Jerk hates the place.” Paulie said as he turned right into the staff gate.
“It’s my parents’ house.” Jerk told Kid over the right shoulder. He began to chew the side of his thumb and stopped himself. “They moved us in when I was 8.”
He wagged his finger back and forth past the gate. “School grew around a few private homes over the years, Tiny bought Mercywood and had it remodeled. Private sale.”
“Sir, do you have your staff badge?” The security guard had come out and was talking to Paulie.
Jerk leaned over toward Paulie’s window and began digging for his wallet. “We’re going to Mercywood. Name’s Theodore Van Renwyck. I’m on the list.”
He found his non-driver’s ID and handed it past Paulie to the guard.
“Just a minute.” The guard went back into the booth.
Jerk turned to Doyle. “No Chipmunks joke this time?”
Doyle rolled his eyes and ignored him.
Snow was melting on the inside of the doors, but the windshield was clear of fog.
The security guard came out. “Here you go, Mr. Van Renwyck. Sorry about your mom.”
Jerk stopped and stared at the guard as he returned the ID. “What about Norma?”
“I…” The guard blinked. “I mean, just that she’s been so sick, that’s all.” He smiled. “She brings me sandwiches sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Jerk said, voice low. “She does that.”
The gate opened. Paulie rolled the car forward, slowly. A hand-stenciled sign said ‘15 mph’.
“Right, then left, then right,” Jerk said.
“Thanks, it’s been a minute.”
“I feel claustrophobic again,” Kid said to Jerk. They tried to roll their window down farther, despite it being as low as it could go.
“Me too. Just a little farther,” Jerk said as they made the second right. He wished he could hold Kid’s hand, just then.
“This is Mercywood,” Jerk said, gesturing as they drove up the driveway.
The main building was a squat, anonymous Federalist brick box. Beside it loomed a smaller Brutalist addition, narrow vertical windows spaced every six feet, like cat’s eyes watching the approach. Both were dark in the diffuse twilight of the snow.
“Still ugly.” Jerk couldn’t think of anything else to say about it. He then added, “I’ll open the garage, you can park in there.”
Paulie followed the driveway as it curved around the hill the house sat on, descending slightly toward the back, where the two-car garage sat beneath the Brutalist addition.
Jerk got out of the car and punched in the code for the door. 1-7-2-3. They had let him pick it when they moved in. It was his favorite four-digit prime. The lights came on as the door rumbled open.
Both his parent’s cars were inside. Tiny’s Seville and Norma’s ancient Toyota Corona she hardly ever drove.
“Huh,” Jerk scratched the side of his head.
He turned and pointed “No room at the inn, park over there.”
“On it,” Paulie’s voice came back from beyond the smeared starbursts of the Diplomat’s headlights. He pulled his car over to the side of the driveway and parked it while Jerk punched in the code and the door closed.
“It’s so quiet, you’d think you were out in the country,” Kid said as they all got out of the car.
“Wait until Pinewood’s hosting a girl’s soccer tournament.” Doyle said. He stretched. “Oooh, it’s getting a bit nippy.”
Jerk looked back at the garage door. “If they didn’t drive to Providence, how did they get there?”
“Did Tiny drive down a car for your uncle Leo?” Paulie asked. Tiny had transported cars Norma’s brother had bought before.
“Maybe,” Jerk shrugged. He pointed to a spot hidden by the darkness. “Service gate to the side street is over there, 2-minute walk to Sacred Heart.”
Kid looked up at the back of the house as it loomed over them. “You said your parent’s house was a dump.”
“I think it is,” Jerk said, walking over. He slipped his hand into Kid’s. “Roof on the addition leaks more than The Broadside’s.” Kid squeezed.
Jerk tugged on Kid’s hand. “Com’on, we’ve got a memorial to get to.”
-
The Black Ledger
“And now, a representative of the Vanderkill Society will read the Black Ledger of those taken by the Witch.” The liturgical minister introduced him before they returned to their pew. This took longer than the Solemn Intercessions on Good Friday.
Jerk stood, unclenching the fist around his thumb. He didn’t want to chew it bloody and bleed on the Black Ledger. Again.
He smoothed out the front of his jacket as he walked towards the lectern where the Ledger waited.
Father Bellafiore was seated in the chancel, just in front of the tabernacle. At Sacred Heart, the layout always made officiants seem more like bodyguards to Christ than men of the cloth.
“I’m, uh–” He hated this part. “Theodore Rousseau Van Renwyck.”
He looked out at the crowd. Full house. Overflow crowds packed the back and lined the outside walls. The doors to the narthex were open, revealing more of the crowd obscured in its dim light.
Most had seen him do this before.
He adjusted the microphone. Fixed his eyes on the ledger. It was easier when he didn’t look at the crowd.
“These are those the Witch has stolen from us.”
Had she?
Jerk didn’t know. He just knew they were gone.
The Black Ledger was nearly square. The leather wrapped cover was more brown than black, edges wearing smooth.
He opened it. He could smell mildew spores that were probably older than anyone in the church.
It had been custom-made for Maerten van Renwyck. Jerk’s ancestor, and the sibling of–
“Barent Van Renwyck. The last Patroon of Renwyck. Brother. Thirty-one. Seventeen eighty-nine.”
The first claimed by the Vanderkill Witch.
“Geertruyd Jansdochter. Seamstress. Twenty-nine. Seventeen eighty-nine.”
Definitely not the woman Barent and Maerten quarreled over.
The script was large, almost childishly so. Maerten, the first to maintain the Ledger, was effectively blind and had to write the names of his brother and their shared beloved large enough that even he could read them.
Jerk turned the page. The next few pages were written in the same hand in fading iron gall ink on the rag paper. Maerten lived to eighty-three. Longer than any Patroon.
Many names were forgotten, even by the families that had lost them. Unmourned, except by the Black Ledger.
He read many mechanically. They had become facts, divorced even from the biographies he’d studied in the Society archives.
The names of the taken spanned 206 years.
“Silas Aries Whitmore. Minister. Fifty-three. Eighteen thirty-one.”
Some said Silas was pushed off a ferry. His much-younger widow married a Hayden. Their sons took the name.
“Lillian Beardsley. Daughter. Thirteen. Eighteen sixty-one.”
Jerk looked out. The Beardsleys were near the back. They still came, one hundred and thirty-four years later. Hers was the last name in iron gall blood. The Witch went quiet for a decade.
“Seymour Gunn. Drunk. Husband. Father. Fifty-nine. Eighteen Seventy-one.”
The purple of the original coal-tar ink had nearly faded, and Jerk had traced over it in ballpoint to make it more indelible a few years prior. Seymour’s biography was empty, other than those biographical details.
Seymour was probably a bastard. Jerk couldn’t be sure.
His voice was getting hoarse by the time he got to the twentieth century. One of Father Bellafiore’s altar servers brought Jerk a glass of water. He sipped from it, and looked out at the crowd. Solemn faces. Tears here and there.
McNally was towards the back, serene like a lizard on a rock.
“Christiane Pétain. Student. Parisian. Nineteen. Nineteen thirteen.”
She had come to Ilium as a student at eighteen.
Her family never acknowledged the Society’s invitation to mourn together.
They never sent for her things.
“Carmine Gaetano. Seminarian. Brother. Son. Twenty-three. Nineteen fifty-one.”
Paulie crossed himself for the uncle he never met.
Next were the names of those taken in the sixties and early seventies. The last of the seventies was the first he remembered.
“Stephen Jonathan Early. Student. Valedictorian. Son. Brother,” Jerk stifled a noise that definitely wasn’t a sob.
“Friend.”
He always added that.
“Seventeen years old. Nineteen seventy-nine.”
His eyes involuntarily went up to the empty choir loft.
Where he had his last conversation with Stephen.
Where he made his promise to him.
-
Captain Fartknocker
Mercywood. May 1979.
“This is Captain Fartknocker. Come in Earth. Do you read me?” Late’s 9-year-old voice came out of every intercom in the house. “Commander Renwyck! Do you read me?”
“If you hold the button down, no one else can reply, Kev!” Stephen called out. Late was somewhere else on the first floor.
“What do you think of Mercywood?” Stephen asked as he turned back to Jerk. They were drinking cokes in the too-bright, too-white kitchen.
“It’s OK,” Jerk said. He pointed at the microwave installed over the range. “It’s got a microwave, that’s… cool.”
The house seemed more endurable with Stephen and Late there.
“I think it’s hideous,” Stephen grimaced, then winked and flashed the grin the brothers shared. “But I guess your Mom’s happy.”
“Yeah, it’s ugly,” Jerk agreed, making a face and looking at his drink.
“It can’t even fit all my books,” Jerk said quietly. His coke fizzed and popped. “I don’t like it here.”
“This house is so cool!” Late said, running into the kitchen. His sneakers chirped on the new vinyl floor. He came to stop next to Stephen and grabbed Stephen’s soda off the table, taking a sip before putting it down.
Late looked like a younger version of Stephen. Lake-blue eyes and sandy blonde hair framing wide friendly faces, incapable of affecting guile. Late smiled more.
“When are we going to the mall? I want to play Skee-Ball!” Late bounced away, into the living room, before Stephen answered. Jerk heard him running upstairs.
“Buddy, you have a lot of books,” Stephen said. “More than any other nine-year-old out there.” Stephen borrowed Leaves of Grass the previous week. Jerk hadn’t read it yet.
“I’m eight,” Jerk corrected him. “Nine in September.”
People always got that wrong. Some thought he was ten or eleven.
“I always forget Kevin’s a little older,” Stephen leaned his head back and yelled. “Kev, if you keep running away we can’t leave.”
Late ran back down the stairs and skidded to a stop just inside the doorway. “Buddy has his own bathroom!”
He’d stacked boxes in front of the door. Of course Late noticed.
“I’m glad you like the house, Kevin.” Jerk wasn’t.
“Skee-Ball?” Late said it like Oliver Twist pleading for more porridge.
“We better go,” Stephen said. “Or Kevin might explode.” He took their drinks and put them in the sink.
“I gotta pee!” Late suddenly exclaimed. He raced upstairs.
Jerk knew which bathroom he was going to use. He sighed.
“Kev, best aim!” Stephen called after Late.
“Stevie, you’re a good big brother,” Jerk said.
His face was serious. “If I had a big brother, I’d want him to be like you.”
Stephen titled his head and smiled. Even smiling, his eyes looked like he might cry. Jerk wondered if he said something wrong.
“You’d make a great little brother,” he said, before ruffling Jerk’s mass of cowlicks. “Great big brother, too.”
“I’m ready!” Late said, running downstairs.
“Did you wash your hands?” Stephen knew the answer.
“Forgot!” Late said, turning to run back up the stairs.
“No, Kevin, in the kitchen. I’m not letting you out of my sight again until I get you out of Mercywood.” Stephen winked at Jerk and twirled the keys to his mom’s Oldsmobile around his finger while Kevin washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
-
Time Machine
Circle Mall. May 1979.
“SKEEEEE-BALLLLL!” Late screamed like a marauding Viking as he charged all the way down the hallway that fed into the mall.
“Should we tell him he doesn’t have any quarters?” Stephen asked Jerk. Stephen seemed quiet on the way over.
Jerk let out a small snort. “He’ll figure it out.” Late bounded around the corner into the mall’s main gallery and went out of sight.
“I want to thank you, Buddy,” Stephen said. “When they held Kevin back a year, I was worried about him.”
“Miss Gilchrist didn’t like him,” Jerk said. “Tiny made sure we both ended up in Mrs. Lyons’s class.”
“How do you know that?” Stephen asked.
“I’ve heard him talk.” Tiny had lots of conversations in front of Jerk that he probably shouldn’t have had. “I was just glad Kevin didn’t want me to do his homework.”
“I have to sit him down at the kitchen table as soon as he gets home, but he does it,” Stephen said. “I tape his favorite cartoons so he can watch them after.”
“Oh, Tiny gave you a VBT200 too?”
Stephen nodded.
Jerk wasn’t sure where they had all come from, besides Japan, like the boxes said. Tiny had given away six by Jerk’s count, and he still had five more.
“I have Battle of the Planets on tapes,” he said. “You might like that.” Tiny had found them for him during one of his trips to “Providence,” where the receipts Jerk saw all had New York City sales tax listed.
“Ahhhh!” Late came around the corner, running toward them.
“Told you he’d figure it out,” Jerk said. He almost smirked.
Late skidded to a stop in front of Stephen. “Emergency! I need quarters!”
“I’ve only got a twenty, and I’m not giving it to you, Kev,” Stephen said, ruffling Late’s hair. “You can wait two minutes so I can get quarters from Davey.”
As near as little Jerk could tell, Davey and Stephen were best friends. They really liked each other. Jerk saw them holding hands one time when he slept over at the Earlys’ house. Late and he had tried to stay up to watch SNL, hoping for a Father Guido Sarducci sketch.
It was less than two minutes, but for Late it was an eternity.
“C’mon!” Late tugged on Stephen’s hand. The sign above the arcade entrance said Time Machine. “Skee-Ball!”
The front of the arcade was dominated by the newest arcade games. Behind those were the pinball machines and redemption counter, and in the far back were the Skee-Ball and coin-pusher games.
Stephen looked up as they reached the entrance, eyes scanning for Davey. “Hey–” He stared at Davey, standing next to the display case of redemption prizes. “Davey, what the hell?”
“Hey, Steph,” Davey said. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come today.”
Davey’s swollen lip was scabbed over, and his eye was nearly shut. Jerk touched his own face reflexively.
Not even Spinks looked that bad after beating Ali. Tiny had watched that a few times on tape.
“Boys,” Davey said. He looked at Late and Jerk. “Buddy, Space Invaders is still broken.”
Jerk groaned. It was his favorite. He always got the high score when he played.
“I’ll help Kevin get tickets,” Jerk said. Late was saving up for a shortwave radio. Four thousand tickets, and he only needed a hundred and fifty more.
Jerk was saving them in a fake book he’d found at a used bookstore. It looked like a copy of Dickens’s A Tale Of Two Cities. He wanted to have secret hiding places for things the way Tiny did.
Stephen stopped and pulled out his wallet. “I need quarters for Kev and Buddy.”
Stephen handed Davey a twenty.
“Normal split?” Davey asked.
“Just a five in quarters for the boys. I don’t want to play anymore,” Stephen said. Davey handed Stephen back five in quarters and three five-dollar bills.
“Davey, can we talk?”
“Back by the Skee-Ball. I can watch the place from there.” Davey walked back.
“Buddy, can you split the quarters?” Stephen asked, dumping five dollars in quarters into Jerk’s hands, which nearly overflowed.
“Sure, Stevie,” Jerk said, looking at Stephen. Stephen’s eyes were wet.
Jerk had noticed that some people could cry but not shed tears. Stephen was one. Little Jerk knew not to cry, because once he started he didn’t know how to stop.
Jerk counted out ten quarters for Late and put them in his left pocket. When he counted the rest for himself, he had ten too, and put them in his right.
Sometimes the belt change dispensers at Time Machine slipped out extra quarters. He always returned them, and the attendants eventually stopped giving him odd looks when he did.
Stephen and Davey were standing by the door to the back room, where they kept the big-ticket prizes under lock and key. The display case boxes of those were empty.
Jerk gave Late a quarter, and they set up at their usual machines, two and four. When Jerk played alone he liked three. It was the only respectable prime number of the four, though four was two, the first prime, raised to the power of itself, which he thought was cool.
Jerk had been chewing on his thumb. He hadn’t even realized it until he could taste blood. He pulled his thumb out and looked at it. It wasn’t too bad. Skee-Ball would keep his hands busy for a few minutes.
Jerk tried not to listen, but machine four was next to where the door went to the back. He was bad at Skee-Ball, but he liked feeling like he was contributing to Late’s shortwave.
“–leaving me here, in Ilium?” Stephen asked. His eyes were more than wet.
Davey murmured something, then added “I thought my dad was going to kill me.”
“Three hundred and fifty points!” Late cheered his own skill. Jerk gave him another quarter, and went back to his game. One hundred points. , Stephen had said something. The parts of Davey’s face that weren’t bruised were white.
“Don’t talk like that. I’ll visit you on leave,” Davey said. He didn’t sound convinced.
Stephen was shaking now. “No, you won’t.” He started pushing past Davey to leave. “I won’t let you.”
“Steph, I love you!” Davey said, loud enough that even Late’s arm hesitated mid-swing as he turned his head. A boy had come in and was playing the Nugent pinball machine. He either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
Davey seemed embarrassed. Jerk and Late looked at each other and went back to playing Skee-Ball.
“Steph, I swear.” Davey grabbed Stephen’s arm.
Stephen’s voice was hollow. “I don’t care what you swear anymore.” He pulled his arm out of Davey’s hand.
“Boys, I’ll be next door at Woolworth’s,” Stephen said as he stalked out of the arcade.
“Steph, wait!” Davey said, chasing after him.
Davey came back after a minute and stood behind the redemption counter, staring out the entrance. When Jerk and Late left, he didn’t say a word.
-
Simplicity
Circle Mall. May 1979.
The Woolworth's in Circle Mall was an artifact from back when it was still a strip mall. A few years earlier, they'd added the roof and the stores that formed the outer L facing the parking lot. Its wide front opened onto the main gallery—a hundred feet of plate glass, long past its usefulness.
They found Stephen in the back corner where the bolts of fabric and clothing patterns were. He was holding a Simplicity dress pattern and staring at a sunny bolt of linen.
"Are you going to make Mom another dress?" Late asked as the boys approached.
Stephen didn't answer. He was staring through the bolt of fabric.
"Stevie?" Late reached out and took Stephen's hand like a lost child.
Stephen's head snapped back with a gasp, and he jerked his hand away reflexively. Late jumped back, too.
"Kevin, where did you come from?" Stephen's eyes focused, and his body relaxed as he registered Late. Jerk stood a couple of feet behind.
"The arcade?" Late tilted his head.
Stephen let out a small sigh. "Of course. Right."
Stephen looked at the pattern in his hands. "Sorry, I was somewhere else."
"I asked if you were going to make Mom another dress?" Late pointed at the bolt of linen. "That's a pretty fabric."
Stephen looked at the fabric. "I think so, too." He smiled and looked at the pattern in his hand, eyes sad. "It will make a pretty sundress."
Stephen fumbled for his wallet. "Why don't you boys get a model?"
He pulled a ten out and handed it to Jerk. "Buddy, get yourself a couple of comics or something too, okay?"
Jerk took the ten and stared at it, folding it before he could memorize the serial number. His mouth was bone dry.
"I need a coke," Jerk said.
Stephen was staring at the fabric again. Late glanced back at Jerk.
"C'mon, Kevin." Jerk tilted his head toward the toys and models. "I bet they've got Star Wars models."
Late was bouncing again before they got to the models. Jerk's mouth was still dry, and he went to get an orange coke from the lunch counter nearby while Late browsed.
The counter attendant was smoking a cigarette, looking bored. She recognized Jerk and shook her head as he approached. "Fizz tank is low—you'll just complain."
The stink of her cigarettes plastered itself over the smell of minestrone—the 'soup of the day' for several years running—and the smoke coated his arid mouth with tar.
Jerk made a face. "Can I have a glass of water? I'm thirsty."
By the end of the fifteen seconds it took her to pour him the glass, it was saving him from gagging.
He tilted the small glass back and drained it. "Could I have another?"
She started to say something and then stopped when she looked at his face. "Sure," she said, and refilled his glass. He sat at the counter, sipping it this time, and she went back to being bored with her cigarette at the other end of the counter.
The slap and squeak of Late's sneakers preceded him, vaulting over the stool next to Jerk to sit on it, sliding the large box of his prize onto the lunch counter. "Star Destroyer!" he said excitedly.
The box was damaged, and it was marked down: $5.49.
"It's not a good deal if it doesn't have all the parts, or if they're damaged." Jerk picked up the box. It had been crushed in one corner. He shook it and shrugged. "Sounds okay."
They bought the model, and Jerk ran back to the lunch counter, putting a quarter tip on it for the attendant. "Thank you for the water," he said. She took it and smiled weakly. "Have a better day, Buddy."
They waited in the main gallery for another twenty minutes before Stephen came out with the Simplicity pattern and a length of sunny linen. His eyes were puffy.
They headed back to Mercywood.