insurance claim or a lawsuit, and he didn’t want any part of having to rehash the details of that morning. What he wanted was to visit Otto and use his new-found money to put a dent in the money he owed the man for payments on Twenty-Nine Palson. Otto expected an installment at the end of the month, and it felt good to know that now he could pay the debt outright.
Dave had first met Otto Anderson in the second grade. Even at that age, Otto was bigger than everyone else. The two of them had become friends when their mothers started working together. Otto’s mother brought him to the Boldens’ during her visits, and Dave had introduced him to most of the kids on the street. The better friends their mothers became, the more they saw of each other. Otto’s mother talked openly about how she wanted him to be more like Dave. She wanted Otto to be more presentable, more respectful and more responsible. She even signed Otto up for Dave’s baseball team, where he was an all- star catcher until the seventh grade, when playing video games and smoking cigarettes took precedence over athletics.
Otto didn’t suit being a kid anyway. A part of him had seemed grown-up to Dave since the day they’d met. He was taller than everyone, the first to kiss a girl, the first to smoke; he’d fought a high school kid when he was in Grade Seven. He was out of high school and working full time by sixteen, and he’d slept with a thirty-year-old woman when he was seventeen. Moments blended into each other like that for Otto.
He didn’t see another day every morning when his eyes opened, he saw an opportunity, which is why while most of the guys he’d grown up with sat through math lessons dry enough to make their eyes bleed, he cleared three hundred a week bussing tables.
Dave hadn’t seen Otto as much as they’d gotten older, but they shared the two most important building blocks of any friendship—mutual respect and a shared history. Both of their mothers had developed cancer around the same time, and they’d spent a period drinking beer together. Long after everyone else at the party or bar went home, they still drank and talked about what the hell their mothers had done to deserve cancer. The more they drank, the more they hated the doctors for not curing their mothers. Otto’s had died six weeks after Dave’s mom was deemed cancer-free. Dave didn’t see Otto for a long time after that. Dave got deeper into his university studies, and Otto got deeper into being Otto, until one night while Dave was cramming for a mid-term, there was a frantic knock at the door.
“I need five hundred dollars,” Otto said with bugged eyes. “Don’t ask me why, just tell me whether you can do it or not, and I promise I’ll pay you back.”
Dave gave him the money, folly expecting never to see it again. Two weeks later, Otto returned to give Dave two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. Now you don’t give someone twenty hundred dollar bills unless you’re trying to make a statement, and Otto’s was that he wasn’t the borrower any more.
The night Dave had found out his dad needed to be in a nursing home, he’d immediately thought of Otto. He needed access to monthly money he didn’t have, and there was simply nowhere else to go. Otto gave him the first six thousand interest-free, and the next day Dave put first and last down on 29 Palson Avenue.
Since the day Jack had moved into Palson Avenue, Dave had taken him to a baseball diamond a block over from home at least once a week, and the outings proved even more important to his dad than bringing the sports section.
Dave reared back and fired a fastball at a piece of plywood substituting for a catcher. He was bending down to pick up another ball from a bagful at his feet when his dad extended one from a pile in his lap. Jack sat in his wheelchair a few feet to Dave’s right with a baseball gripped tight in his hand and an oxygen mask dangling from his neck.
“You pitch like a
Dave had first met Otto Anderson in the second grade. Even at that age, Otto was bigger than everyone else. The two of them had become friends when their mothers started working together. Otto’s mother brought him to the Boldens’ during her visits, and Dave had introduced him to most of the kids on the street. The better friends their mothers became, the more they saw of each other. Otto’s mother talked openly about how she wanted him to be more like Dave. She wanted Otto to be more presentable, more respectful and more responsible. She even signed Otto up for Dave’s baseball team, where he was an all- star catcher until the seventh grade, when playing video games and smoking cigarettes took precedence over athletics.
Otto didn’t suit being a kid anyway. A part of him had seemed grown-up to Dave since the day they’d met. He was taller than everyone, the first to kiss a girl, the first to smoke; he’d fought a high school kid when he was in Grade Seven. He was out of high school and working full time by sixteen, and he’d slept with a thirty-year-old woman when he was seventeen. Moments blended into each other like that for Otto.
He didn’t see another day every morning when his eyes opened, he saw an opportunity, which is why while most of the guys he’d grown up with sat through math lessons dry enough to make their eyes bleed, he cleared three hundred a week bussing tables.
Dave hadn’t seen Otto as much as they’d gotten older, but they shared the two most important building blocks of any friendship—mutual respect and a shared history. Both of their mothers had developed cancer around the same time, and they’d spent a period drinking beer together. Long after everyone else at the party or bar went home, they still drank and talked about what the hell their mothers had done to deserve cancer. The more they drank, the more they hated the doctors for not curing their mothers. Otto’s had died six weeks after Dave’s mom was deemed cancer-free. Dave didn’t see Otto for a long time after that. Dave got deeper into his university studies, and Otto got deeper into being Otto, until one night while Dave was cramming for a mid-term, there was a frantic knock at the door.
“I need five hundred dollars,” Otto said with bugged eyes. “Don’t ask me why, just tell me whether you can do it or not, and I promise I’ll pay you back.”
Dave gave him the money, folly expecting never to see it again. Two weeks later, Otto returned to give Dave two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. Now you don’t give someone twenty hundred dollar bills unless you’re trying to make a statement, and Otto’s was that he wasn’t the borrower any more.
The night Dave had found out his dad needed to be in a nursing home, he’d immediately thought of Otto. He needed access to monthly money he didn’t have, and there was simply nowhere else to go. Otto gave him the first six thousand interest-free, and the next day Dave put first and last down on 29 Palson Avenue.
Since the day Jack had moved into Palson Avenue, Dave had taken him to a baseball diamond a block over from home at least once a week, and the outings proved even more important to his dad than bringing the sports section.
Dave reared back and fired a fastball at a piece of plywood substituting for a catcher. He was bending down to pick up another ball from a bagful at his feet when his dad extended one from a pile in his lap. Jack sat in his wheelchair a few feet to Dave’s right with a baseball gripped tight in his hand and an oxygen mask dangling from his neck.
“You pitch like a
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