LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

from a bright night at the Metro.

      The basement door opened. Blake rumbled down the stairs and past the TV console. In one fluid motion, he leaned down, clicked the stereo off, and continued to his room.

      “What the fuck?” Rich shouted.

      Blake clicked the light on in his bedroom, then popped his head back through the door.

      “Get out. I’m going to sleep.”

      “Fuck you.”

      Blake ran across the room, leapt onto Rich’s lap, and straddled him. Rich raised his arms feebly, and Blake slammed his fist savagely into Rich’s nose. The length of Rich’s nose mushed sideways. Blood erupted onto his black Pantera t-shirt. Sy jumped up and attempted to pull Blake off.

      “Aye, he’s your brother God damnit!” Sy shouted, disgusted.

      Blake planted his feet on the couch, stood, twisted, and shoved Sy hard, sending him reeling backward.

      “Now get de fuck outta here, ya big pussy!” Blake yelled as he leapt off the couch and stomped toward his room.

      “You didn’t even give me a chance!” Rich yelped as he leapt after Blake. Blake spun sharply and raised his fists. Rich halted mid-step. Then, he sneered and spit a mouthful of blood at Blake that spattered on his neck and his plaid Gap shirt. Blake reeled back, grossed-out.

      Rich stomped out of the basement with Sy behind him.

      •

      I REMEMBER RIDING down to Maxwell Street with Rich in his brown Bronco. He was telling about all the things you could get down at the Maxwell Street Market.

      “What kinda things,” I asked.

      “All kindsa things,” Rich said as he opened the flip-up lid of the wooden box he’d built into the space between the seats. A small, chalk-white pistol lay at the bottom of the large box.

      “Is it real?”

      “Yeah, it’s real,” he replied as he lifted the pistol out, released the clip, and slid it free. “Dem look like BBs to you?” Rich handed me the metal clip.

      I slipped the top bullet out of the structure.

      “Damn!” I rubbed my fingers over the smooth brass casing and the heavy, metal tip. “What is it, a .22?”

      “Naw, it’s a .25 semi-automatic,” he answered as we drove down Hollywood.

      “Aw, man, that’s bad as hell! So you don’t got to cock it every time?”

      “Just once,” he said, glancing at me. I gawked at the small-caliber bullet as I rolled it in my fingertips. “Give me dat fuckin’ thing,” he said, snatching the clip out of my hand.

      I handed him the bullet, and he slipped it back in the clip while steering with his knees. We drove south on Ashland. He picked up the gun from between his legs and popped the clip back in the grip. Then, he placed the pistol back in the box and shut it.

      Rich had a way of turning things into these folkloric adventures. As we moved through the city, he gave me a history lesson on the South Loop Skid Row. Then, he eased a slow left onto Halsted through the mob of passing people. We rolled slowly forward as the long line of traffic eked ahead of us. People cut between the cars and trucks as they crossed the street. There was a beat-up, white box-truck near the first intersection, and a green street sign hovered above it that read “Maxwell Street” in white letters.

      A series of bums rushed up to my window. Their haggard faces leered inside as they waved gold chains and watches in my face. One thin, black bum in a blue t-shirt blared out, “I got socks!” as he passed. He held up a large bag of tube socks. His crusty fingers and yellow nails squeezed the bag tightly. The socks bulged against the plastic like a balloon ready to burst.

      “What?” Rich said, glancing at me. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re gonna piss your fucking pants.”

      “What if they ran at the door? What would we do? There’s no way outta here.”

      “That’s what the .25’s for,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead.” He flipped the box open. “Hold it if it’ll make you feel better.”

      I slowly reached in and picked up the .25. It still looked fake, but it was much heavier than I expected. I squeezed the white grip enclosed around the spring-loaded clip. The rough, metal-finished barrel was heavy and made it want to point downward. My hand felt big around the grip, like the gun was made for a hand not much larger than mine. I passed it over my lap and slipped it alongside my outer thigh so I could hold it between my leg and the car door. A calm set in my chest as I exhaled a deep breath. The faces of the bums turned comical, clownish even. A fat nose with long, black hairs shot out of each nostril; an old, wrinkle-faced Polack mug with a kid-sized, black and red Chicago Bulls cap stretched around his narrow scalp. I grinned with the knowledge that all I had to do was raise that thing up and squeeze to make them disappear. Inside, I finally felt that powerful aura of Pistol Pat.

      I heard the pop from that night at the carnival—that hollow pop that rang out in the midst of all that joy. I thought of where the bullet went. They all go somewhere right? The asphalt, the church wall, a ricochet. Hell, it could have hit me, or a little baby in a stroller. How could he have been so reckless? How could he be so foolish? A pregnant woman walked past my window with a giant, plump belly. It was like she was gonna give birth right then and there, or explode. Maybe he deserved to die.

      I could see through the people that filtered past to these glass storefronts filled with racks of clothes, suits, shoes, and gold jewelry.

      Up ahead, above the bustling sidewalk, I watched the profile of the street. The 100-year-old, dark brick, three-story buildings leaned and rested against one another like a string of winos in a frozen saunter. Several of the buildings had given way and collapsed in spots. The rubble extracted. Vendors had set up along the sidewalks. Children ran and played behind them in the hilly, glass and concrete-speckled lots.

      Twangy blues riffs spouted up from electric guitars every so often. Then, they were swallowed up by the slow thumping baseline of hip-hop that flooded out from the boom boxes of the street vendors who sold tapes.

      I could smell a heavy odor of onions caramelizing and rank fried sausage as we got to Maxwell Street. To the west, there was a large lot that was full of makeshift shacks. Rich parked in front of a hydrant. I put the gun back in the box, and we locked the doors and went shopping.

      •

      WE PLAYED BASKETBALL on summer evenings in my alley. We used the hoop Dad’d built onto the sloped roof of our garage. I was always just a little bit better than anyone on the block around my age. Only Ryan could beat me and only sometimes. I wasn’t the best shooter, but I could always dribble past people and make these running shots. They weren’t layups because I was further out from the hoop. I’d dribble past my defender, jump, and sling the ball from my side with both hands with the form of a kid just barely strong enough to shoot on a big hoop. And I’d always bank my shots in using the red box on the backboard as my target. We played most nights. The girls from the block would lean against the far garage, chit-chat, and watch the game. One of them was Hyacinth—a skinny, little Filipino girl who lived on the end of the block at Hermitage Ave. She had thick jet-black hair with long bangs cut straight across her forehead, big amber eyes, and a cute smile. I had a long-running crush on her. She was in my grade at St. Greg’s, and sometimes we’d walk home from school together. When she was really sweet and flirty with me, she’d twirl her finger in her hair as we talked. That’s how I knew she liked me, too, ’cause I never saw her do that with nobody else. It was an unconscious attraction—a magnetism that had us always beside each other when us kids were grouped up. Our hands thoughtlessly intertwined, then unraveled swiftly when anyone spied us doing it. Our cheeks would blush. Then, I’d have to sock anyone who sang “Joey’s got a girlfriend.” Slowly, we stopped caring about it, but that was later.

      I headed out of the alley after dinner one night. On my way through the dark gangway, I could

Скачать книгу