that poured out of the stereo. They were drunk and high, as usual, and on the down-turn 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.
âWhat the fuck?â Rich shouted.
Blake clicked the light on in his bedroom, then popped his head back through the door.
âGet out. Iâm going to sleep.â
âFuck you.â
Blake ran across the room, leapt onto Richâs lap, and straddled him. Rich raised his arms feebly, and Blake slammed his fist savagely into Richâs nose. The length of Richâs nose mushed sideways. Blood erupted onto his black Pantera t-shirt. Sy jumped up and attempted to pull Blake off.
âAye, heâs your brother God damnit!â Sy shouted, disgusted.
Blake planted his feet on the couch, stood, twisted, and shoved Sy hard, sending him reeling backward.
âNow get de fuck outta here, ya big pussy!â Blake yelled as he leapt off the couch and stomped toward his room.
âYou didnât even give me a chance!â 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.
â¢
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.
âWhat kinda things,â I asked.
âAll kindsa things,â Rich said as he opened the flip-up lid of the wooden box heâd built into the space between the seats. A small, chalk-white pistol lay at the bottom of the large box.
âIs it real?â
âYeah, itâs real,â he replied as he lifted the pistol out, released the clip, and slid it free. âDem look like BBs to you?â Rich handed me the metal clip.
I slipped the top bullet out of the structure.
âDamn!â I rubbed my fingers over the smooth brass casing and the heavy, metal tip. âWhat is it, a .22?â
âNaw, itâs a .25 semi-automatic,â he answered as we drove down Hollywood.
âAw, man, thatâs bad as hell! So you donât got to cock it every time?â
âJust once,â he said, glancing at me. I gawked at the small-caliber bullet as I rolled it in my fingertips. âGive me dat fuckinâ thing,â 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 âMaxwell Streetâ 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, âI got socks!â 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.
âWhat?â Rich said, glancing at me. âWhatâs wrong? You look like youâre gonna piss your fucking pants.â
âWhat if they ran at the door? What would we do? Thereâs no way
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