Johnny ‘s strung out. Vacant eyes. Toes tapping out a D-beat on the pavement. Like one of those ghouls that panhandles on the Cross Bronx.
“My brotha,” he says.
“From another mothha.”
That gets a laugh. Johnny leans in, gives me one of those dude hugs. Not too close and with a few slaps on the back.
Two years but nothing’s changed. Same Johnny who first got me plastered. Fourteen and sneaking bottles from his Pop’s liquor cabinet. Bacardi and Dewars. Gilbeys and names I couldn’t even pronounce.
“This guy’s good, right?” he asks.
And I just nod.
We walk because it isn’t far. Just a few blocks and whatever breeze there is disappears between skyscrapers.
But the dead streets in the dark feel like we’re headed to a grave. Even the rats must be huddled away under sewer plates, leaving us alone to fight for scraps.
“How’s your Pops,” Johnny asks.
“Hanging on.”
He lights a loosie that looks like it has been lingering in an old coat pocket for years.
“Best coach ever.”
Little league. Orioles. White Sox. The Tomahawks (don’t ask). The clank of those aluminum bats. Big league chew passed around like we’d later pass powder.
“Good times,” I say but my hand won’t stop shaking.
Last leg of our trip, down an alley. No door on the ground floor. So we’re up on the fire escape. Three stories. Johnny looks down, tosses his smoke.
“This place,” he says, spitting something ugly, “Never wanted to spend my life here.”
The sleeve of his hoodie bubbles up and I see fresh marks. More than ever.
“Not like this y’know.” A hard cough.
I knock on the door.
“This guy’s okay, right?” Johnny says again.
I just nod.
And let him go.
Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His work tends to explore broken people, bad decisions, and the small redemptions hiding underneath. His short stories are published or forthcoming in Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Bristol Noir, Hawkeye, Dodo Eraser, Close to the Bone, and Revolution John.
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