burned in the front windows, a reliable sign that his stepfather, Willie, was home, and maybe awake. Mark had hoped that the guy would be out with one of his women.
Maybe he’ll be asleep on the couch, Mark thought.
His hopes were dashed when he stepped through the front door and found Willie standing at the gas stove, spatula in hand, cooking bacon and eggs. Six feet tall and soft-bodied, he wore a silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark slacks, and shiny Stacy Adams. The mingled scents of Halsten cologne and cigarette smoke hit Mark like a smack to the face.
Willie had been out partying again.
“Hey,” Mark said.
“What’s happening, potna?” Willie asked, turning around. His Jheri curl sat like a wet mop on his head. He grinned. “Chase any giant turds down the toilet tonight?”
Willie asked him similar crude questions almost every night when Mark returned home from work. He found Mark’s job to be a source of endless amusement.
The ridiculous part was that Willie didn’t even have a job. Fired from his auto factory position, he hadn’t worked in almost a year. When Mark’s mother died of breast cancer, the life insurance proceeds had been split between Mark and Willie. Mark had planned to use his share to pay for college, expecting Willie to cover the house utilities and incidentals. Instead, Willie had purchased a new Cadillac Escalade and spent another twenty thousand dollars customizing it. Although Willie was fifty-one years old, he got the thrill of his life driving a vehicle outfitted with twenty-six-inch wheels, and mini-TVs in the dashboard and headrests—and picking up young women, too.
It fell to Mark to pay the utilities and maintenance costs. Fortunately, the mortgage was paid off, and Mark’s mother had had the foresight to bequeath the house to him. Mark, technically, had the power to kick Willie out. But sometimes he imagined simply leaving this place for somewhere else rather than showing freeloading Willie the door. He could go to school somewhere faraway, like Oregon, maybe even Hawaii. Anything to get away from this guy.
“Being a janitor is only a temporary thing for me,” Mark said. “It’s a stepping stone.”
“The only stepping up you’ll be doing there is cleaning the snot off some vp’s desk,” Willie said.
“It’s just a part-time job while I go to school. Not my real career.”
Willie scratched his potbelly. “Oh, yeah, you’re gonna publish them books, right? Make a living sitting in a room dreaming up shit. Almost forgot, there’s a letter on the table for you, James Baldwin.”
Mark picked up the envelope. A sinking sensation dropped through his stomach. Willie had already opened the letter.
When he removed the correspondence and saw the salutation that began “Dear Author” he didn’t bother reading any further. It was yet another rejection of his mystery novel, from a literary agent in New York. He crumpled the letter into a ball.
Willie grinned.
“Dear Turd-Chasing Author, Your book is BULLshit!”
Laughing, he stuffed a strip of bacon in his greasy mouth.
“Don’t open my mail again,” Mark said softly.
“Why? It ain’t like somebody gonna be sending you a check for that shit. You oughta let me screen the mail for you. I don’t think your fragile ass can handle the rejection.”
“Just mind your own business,” Mark mumbled, and left the kitchen.
He tried to avoid looking at the house as he rushed to his bedroom. The place was filthy—clothes, junk, and clutter everywhere. Mom, a neat freak, would be turning over in her grave if she could see it.
Someone stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Mark almost shouted in surprise.
It was a girl. Willie’s guest for the night, presumably. She wore a tight red blouse that emphasized her huge breasts, and leather jeans that hugged her thick thighs like plastic wrap.
She looked as if she was Mark’s age.
“Hi,” Mark said, and brushed past
Maybe he’ll be asleep on the couch, Mark thought.
His hopes were dashed when he stepped through the front door and found Willie standing at the gas stove, spatula in hand, cooking bacon and eggs. Six feet tall and soft-bodied, he wore a silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark slacks, and shiny Stacy Adams. The mingled scents of Halsten cologne and cigarette smoke hit Mark like a smack to the face.
Willie had been out partying again.
“Hey,” Mark said.
“What’s happening, potna?” Willie asked, turning around. His Jheri curl sat like a wet mop on his head. He grinned. “Chase any giant turds down the toilet tonight?”
Willie asked him similar crude questions almost every night when Mark returned home from work. He found Mark’s job to be a source of endless amusement.
The ridiculous part was that Willie didn’t even have a job. Fired from his auto factory position, he hadn’t worked in almost a year. When Mark’s mother died of breast cancer, the life insurance proceeds had been split between Mark and Willie. Mark had planned to use his share to pay for college, expecting Willie to cover the house utilities and incidentals. Instead, Willie had purchased a new Cadillac Escalade and spent another twenty thousand dollars customizing it. Although Willie was fifty-one years old, he got the thrill of his life driving a vehicle outfitted with twenty-six-inch wheels, and mini-TVs in the dashboard and headrests—and picking up young women, too.
It fell to Mark to pay the utilities and maintenance costs. Fortunately, the mortgage was paid off, and Mark’s mother had had the foresight to bequeath the house to him. Mark, technically, had the power to kick Willie out. But sometimes he imagined simply leaving this place for somewhere else rather than showing freeloading Willie the door. He could go to school somewhere faraway, like Oregon, maybe even Hawaii. Anything to get away from this guy.
“Being a janitor is only a temporary thing for me,” Mark said. “It’s a stepping stone.”
“The only stepping up you’ll be doing there is cleaning the snot off some vp’s desk,” Willie said.
“It’s just a part-time job while I go to school. Not my real career.”
Willie scratched his potbelly. “Oh, yeah, you’re gonna publish them books, right? Make a living sitting in a room dreaming up shit. Almost forgot, there’s a letter on the table for you, James Baldwin.”
Mark picked up the envelope. A sinking sensation dropped through his stomach. Willie had already opened the letter.
When he removed the correspondence and saw the salutation that began “Dear Author” he didn’t bother reading any further. It was yet another rejection of his mystery novel, from a literary agent in New York. He crumpled the letter into a ball.
Willie grinned.
“Dear Turd-Chasing Author, Your book is BULLshit!”
Laughing, he stuffed a strip of bacon in his greasy mouth.
“Don’t open my mail again,” Mark said softly.
“Why? It ain’t like somebody gonna be sending you a check for that shit. You oughta let me screen the mail for you. I don’t think your fragile ass can handle the rejection.”
“Just mind your own business,” Mark mumbled, and left the kitchen.
He tried to avoid looking at the house as he rushed to his bedroom. The place was filthy—clothes, junk, and clutter everywhere. Mom, a neat freak, would be turning over in her grave if she could see it.
Someone stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Mark almost shouted in surprise.
It was a girl. Willie’s guest for the night, presumably. She wore a tight red blouse that emphasized her huge breasts, and leather jeans that hugged her thick thighs like plastic wrap.
She looked as if she was Mark’s age.
“Hi,” Mark said, and brushed past
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