Most of it was trash people didn\u2019t want to pay the city to haul away. TVs that didn\u2019t turn on, coffee makers with severed cords. But we still accepted everything as donations, and the people who brought them in took their handwritten receipts and walked back to their cars with a tax write off, a new skip in their step like St. Damien after kissing some lepers.<\/p>\n
The organization was vaguely religious. There was the occasional biblical portrait hanging in the thrift store where I worked on Montrose and Sheridan. The largest portrait was of the Virgin Mary. She hung above the back door, where the donations came in, child in arms, a bright blue sky and an orange aura surrounding her. Her eyes followed me every step I took.<\/p>\n
But more than they were religious, all this place really wanted was cheap labor from half-dead fuck ups who lived in their rehabs and homeless shelters.<\/p>\n
They weren\u2019t just in Chicago. These places were everywhere. A guy named Mickey worked in the back with me. He came in from a different store in California. His skin was tanned like old leather, a childish tattoo of No Fear scrawled across his throat, dancing as his gums flapped. I wondered if they hurt. His gums bouncing back and forth against each other. I closed my eyes while he spoke about drinking malt liquor and riding trains in his younger days. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture him with teeth.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese look like they\u2019ll fit,\u201d Mickey held an XXL pair of Jockey underwear above his head, yellow stains crusted on the crotch.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s disgusting,\u201d I said. The stains almost made me gag.<\/p>\n
Mickey laughed, his gums shining, and threw the Jockeys into a dumpster. We were digging through what had come in last night: ten garbage bags filled with clothes from the alley, two ring stained coffee tables, and a tote full of what appeared to be miscellaneous junk.<\/p>\n
People routinely left clothes or other discarded items by the doors at night. Mickey and I were tasked with going through everything that came in, tossing the trash or soiled clothes into the dumpsters placed around the store\u2019s donation area, and pricing anything we deemed valuable. The leftover clothes that weren\u2019t soiled, but couldn\u2019t fit on the shelves, we threw into a compressor, compacted, tied into bales, and rolled and stacked into the corners, where once a week some out-of-work sap who happened to have a CDL came to pick them up. Like the rest of us, he was paid a small stipend, but his compensation was mostly room and board.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need something nice. A suit or at least slacks and a button up,\u201d Mickey said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHot date?\u201d I asked, smiling.<\/p>\n
Mickey scrunched his forehead into a facetious look of contempt. He was playful and expressive, waved his hands a lot when he talked. He had no shame from his bald head or toothless mouth. He talked to everyone like he was their equal.<\/p>\n
\u201cFuneral,\u201d he said, opening a new bag of clothes, digging for a bit before dumping the contents on the floor for easier investigation. \u201cWhere\u2019s a guy supposed to get a decent pair of slacks around here?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho died?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDevon.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour roommate? The big guy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, they came and got him yesterday. I\u2019m surprised they could get him through the door.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happened?\u201d I asked, knowing Mickey\u2019s roommate probably went the same way as the others. A quick, painless death from the tip of a needle.<\/p>\n
\u201cMethadone,\u201d Mickey said, holding a pair of khakis to his waist. They were too small and had a large tear in the knee. \u201cYou know Ole Boy always slept with blankets wrapped around him, head and everything, like a mummy. There was just a little hole near his mouth to breathe.\u201d Mickey tossed the khakis into the dumpster. \u201cHe slept in most mornings, too, so I didn\u2019t think much of it when I left for work, and he was still in bed. But I came back in the evening and his huge body was still in the same position as when I left him in the morning. I still didn\u2019t think much of it. Then, yesterday morning, I gave him a nudge. He was stiff as a board.\u201d Mickey stuck his body at attention to demonstrate rigor mortis.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou slept there all night? Right across from a dead guy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBest night\u2019s sleep I\u2019ve had in years. He didn\u2019t make a sound.\u201d Mickey chuckled. \u201cWhen I pulled the blankets off, his whole head was blue.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike totally blue?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike a goddamn Bomb Pop.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t smell him all night?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe always smelled a like sour milk. His counselor begged him to take a bath, but…\u201d Mickey shrugged.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat was his name? David, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDevon,\u201d Mickey said, “smelled like shit but minded his own business. The best roommate I\u2019ve ever had. Here we go.\u201d Mickey pulled out an old suit, matching Camel Hair jacket and pants. There were some easily removable stains on the thighs. He tried on the jacket. It fit like a glove.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot too shabby,\u201d Mickey said, opening the jacket, the name Melvin written under the breast pocket in sharpie.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m surprised Melvin wasn\u2019t buried in it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou coming to the funeral?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere at?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNativity of Our Lord in Bridgeport. I guess he was a member,\u201d Mickey did a quick twirl in the suit, like he was on a runway.<\/p>\n
I could already taste the buttered Hawaiian-roll ham sandwiches served in the basement after the funeral, maybe some cheesy baked potatoes if we were lucky.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m there.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, one more thing,\u201d Mickey dug into the front pocket of his shirt, pulling out a handful of methadone pills. \u201cI got to his drawers before they cleared them out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDevon, you were a good man,\u201d I said, and we split the pills and swallowed.<\/p>\n
We spent the rest of the afternoon nursing Styrofoam cups of Folgers in the donation area, itching our noses, a slight nod, deep breaths under a dull blanket of relaxation. Mickey stretched in the Camel Hair suit. I thought about the ham sandwiches and watered-down lemonade at Devon\u2019s funeral in a few days, the Virgin Mary looking down on us from a peaceful aura of light and love.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Theft was a normal occurrence. Not just from the customers. Mickey and I priced quite a few items easily sold, stuff we didn\u2019t have much use for living in a shelter: clothes that didn\u2019t fit, silverware, books. But anything that could catch us a quick buck we set aside. It was a first-come-first-served, finders keepers situation: DVDs, video games, smaller pieces of furniture easily carted up the street to Wilson and Broadway\u2014where they would go quick to the office workers moving into the new luxury high rises sprouting up across the neighborhood.<\/p>\n
I stashed my goods on the North Side of the backroom, Mickey on the South. We hid our loot behind the walls of clothing bales. Hiding our day\u2019s haul was almost strictly for show. Jerry, the manager of the store, who was going through management training, rarely came into the donation area, much less poked around to see what we were doing. He stayed up front with the customers and money. Jerry lived in the same house as Mickey, wore button up shirts and slacks to work. He shaved daily, manicured his fingernails and mustache. We hated Jerry.<\/p>\n
Mickey had a pretty good haul that day. He had an eagle eye for bright green Xbox game cases. He saw a twinkle of gold like a fish swimming too close to the surface.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re getting all the good boxes,\u201d I said. \u201cYou can\u2019t cherry pick and just hover around the door so you get first dibs.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mickey smiled. \u201cYou\u2019re young and strong, Michael. As skinny as you are, I thought you\u2019d be quicker. Survival of the fittest. We could fight for it.\u201d He put his fists up like a heavy weight champ.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust share the wealth. I thought you West Coasters were supposed to be laid back, easy going.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought Chicagoans were territorial. Why don\u2019t you drop a lawn chair in front of the door.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll I\u2019m saying is there\u2019s enough to go around.\u201d My stomach was churning. I\u2019d overslept and missed breakfast that day. \u201cI\u2019m craving an elote. I\u2019m going to Montrose Beach after work, and I need a few bucks for a snack.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBeach,\u201d Mickey scoffed. \u201cThose aren\u2019t beaches.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s sand and water, right? I\u2019ll take the lake over the ocean any day.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you\u2019ve never seen the women at Santa Monica or had a good connect in Venice. You can bang it out on a real beach all day, grab a couple purses when the floozies are in the water, walk a couple blocks to the boy\u2019s house, rinse and repeat.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s plenty to do on the Lake here, too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, but the water\u2019s got no rhythm. No real tide, no real beach.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust stop taking all the good boxes. It\u2019s greedy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSome of us need the money more than others,\u201d he said with a hint of a smirk on his face.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou trying to get out of the shelter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBigger than that. I\u2019m out of here in a couple weeks, maybe sooner.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBack to California?\u201d I asked, and Mickey shrugged, but before he could answer, the door rang\u2014a shrill electric buzz. We locked eyes, both sprinting toward the door. Mickey pumped his stubby legs, but my stride overtook him. He was puffing, a good five feet behind by the time I opened the metal latch.<\/p>\n
Behind the door was a middle-aged, bearded man. \u201cYou takin\u2019 stuff?\u201d the man asked, his voice twanged of Southern Illinois. I could barely hear him over the idle of his lifted truck, caked in dust from gravel roads.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlways,\u201d I smiled.<\/p>\n
He led me to the back of his truck, popped the tailgate with a thud. A decal of the American flag covered the back window, Waylon Jennings sung softly from the cab. There was only one box in the bed of the truck.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis all?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe only one,\u201d he said, sliding the box out to the alley concrete.<\/p>\n
We looked at each other for a moment. \u201cThere\u2019s no way you live nearby. You drove all the way here to drop off one box?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was in the neighborhood,\u201d he said, and before I could ask him if he wanted a receipt, he roared down the alley.<\/p>\n
Mickey was hovering behind me now. \u201cLooks like a good haul,\u201d he said with a laugh.<\/p>\n
The box had some weight, but only a couple items slid over the cardboard bottom.\u00a0 I plopped it down just passed the door.<\/p>\n
Mickey handed me his multi-tool, one of the many donated items, which he came to work with every day looped to his belt.<\/p>\n
I cut the box open and handed it back to him. On top was an old wedding dress. It had long sleeves, thick frill covering the shoulders. A lacy skirt. It was classy and modest. Under the dress was a wooden box. It was obviously hand crafted, varnished, brass hinges, with Salem High School soldered into the wood on the upper left corner.<\/p>\n
I opened the box, hinges smooth with WD40. Mickey and I both fell silent for a moment as we looked inside. The fluorescent lights in the backroom made the pistol\u2019s metal shine a bright silver. It was well taken care of, polished, Smith & Wesson stamped in the metal along the short barrel.<\/p>\n
I picked up the gun. It was heavier than I expected for such a small piece. I\u2019d never held a gun before. Mickey stood in awe as if the Virgin Mary had come down from above the door and given him a new set of teeth. I could see it was loaded. Every chamber housing a bullet but one, hallow and lonely.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me see it,\u201d he finally said, twitching a bit. His eyes were becoming wild, a drop of spit\u2014frothy white\u2014clung to the corner of his mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think we should call the cops,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Mickey shook his head. \u201cThe cops? Why?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis could have a felony on it. It\u2019s loaded,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Mickey wiped his mouth. \u201cI\u2019ll trade you for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat? No way.\u201d I held the pistol in both hands now. \u201cBesides, you don\u2019t have anything to trade.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll give you everything I got today. I got a lot of good stuff. Video games, DVDs.\u201d He paused a moment. \u201cI\u2019ll give you everything I have for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
The hair he still had was wild, eyes piercing, grinding his gums, feet tapping so hard I thought they may crack the floor.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I took the train to Devon\u2019s funeral. Raindrops speckled the windows as it zoomed from the tunnel, exposing clouds shouting sorrows.<\/p>\n
The drops zigzagged down the scratched window, pooling at the bottom before flying into Chinatown alleys or on top of condos, people inside waiting to haul their unloved belongings into the donation center behind the store, where Mickey and I would collect them, throw out the trash, and steal anything valuable.<\/p>\n
The pistol laid its cold metal against my hip and stomach, wedged between my belt and body. I couldn\u2019t leave it at the shelter, where random searches seemed to be given at the most inopportune times. Rumors spread fast, too. If Mickey talked too much, and Jerry got wind, I\u2019d be out of a job and a roof over my head. The gun was too valuable to discard and too risky to leave unattended.<\/p>\n
Mickey had been pestering me about the gun for the last several days, only stopping short at what he planned to do with it.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything you own?\u201d I asked a day or earlier, confused, a little frightened of how eager and obsessed he was becoming.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything. I\u2019ve been saving for the last three months. I\u2019ve got about a thousand dollars tucked away. I\u2019ll give everything to you and all the other shit we\u2019ve taken from here. Just give me the piece.\u201d<\/p>\n
I squinted, his face had lost all of its playfulness. \u201cOnly if you tell me what you\u2019re going to do with it. Are you leaving town?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cFar away. So far they\u2019ll never trace it back to you or that hillbilly asshole or anybody. I\u2019m not going to get caught, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCaught doing what, exactly?\u201d and Mickey fell silent. He refused to speak to me from then on. If it wasn\u2019t about the gun, he didn\u2019t want to hear it.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I got off the train at Comiskey and walked a few blocks to Nativity of Our Lord, its steeple towering over the streets. The Mass had already started, and I saw Mickey sitting alone in one of the back pews.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis place is beautiful,\u201d I whispered, sliding next to him. The priest stood at the altar, robes flowing, white marble pillars surrounding him. He murmured prayers into the microphone, dropping holy water on a closed wooden casket. The first few rows were scattered with Devon\u2019s family, wrapped in black suits and dresses. Most wiped tears from their eyes. A woman who I assumed was Devon\u2019s mother sat up front in the first pew, closet to the aisle, a large hat perched on her head like a crown. It\u2019s what I imagined women wore to the Kentucky Derby. She didn\u2019t cry or kneel or show any emotion. She sat planted, stoic, and only rose for communion.<\/p>\n
\u201cCatholics,\u201d Mickey said out of the side of his mouth. \u201cThey really know how to put on a show. \u201c<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Devon\u2019s family must have had some money. It wasn\u2019t just church donated ham sandwiches. They had paid for the event to be catered. A local barbeque joint served pulled pork, so tender it melted on my tongue.<\/p>\n
Mickey and I sat a table by ourselves, sucking down Old Styles, apparently Devon\u2019s drink of choice.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you bring it with you?\u201d Mickey asked.<\/p>\n
I patted my waistband, where the pistol hung secured.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bet you don\u2019t even know what kind of gun it is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you?\u201d I pulled from the bottle dripping condensation.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a .38,\u201d he said with a scoff. \u201cDo you know what that means?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt shoots,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Mickey started to look annoyed. He had downed about six Old Styles. \u201cIt means it\u2019s loud. It means if you fire it people will hear it. If you scare somebody enough, then you don\u2019t need to hurt anyone. If they run off, then you won\u2019t need to actually use it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou planning to rob a bank?\u201d I smiled.<\/p>\n
Mickey looked at me disgusted, like a bratty child too selfish to share their new toys Christmas morning.<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously,\u201d I finished the beer and cracked another, \u201cwhat is it with you and this pistol? What the fuck are you planning? If you\u2019re just going to hold up some liquor store, then you\u2019re better off just skipping out with what you have now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not about money,\u201d Mickey said, and his entire head wrinkled. I\u2019d never seen him this serious.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFamily. Okay, it\u2019s about my family.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat family?\u201d I asked. As long as I\u2019d known Mickey, he\u2019d never mentioned anyone closer to him than a woman who made eye contact on the train.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have a family. I have a child.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBack West?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. Why do think I came here? My kid\u2019s mother.\u201d He stopped for moment, swallowed, and took another drink of his beer. \u201cMy kid\u2019s mother was from Beverly or one of those Irish parade neighborhoods. We lived together in California. We had a son. I went out on a run, went to Mexico for a few weeks, and when I get home, they\u2019re gone. I finally got word they\u2019d come back here about a year ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow old\u2019s your son?\u201d I asked, a little suspicious of Mickey\u2019s story.<\/p>\n
\u201cTen. He just turned ten this year. I was holed up in this rat hole, working a donation center in MacArthur Park when I finally heard she brought him back here. I need to get him back.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd this pistol is going to help get your kid back?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mickey thought it over for a moment. \u201cHave you ever had a dog?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at him in confusion. \u201cYeah, when I was a kid. His name was Nugget.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I used to travel with this half Husky. A blue-eyed, loyal, beautiful animal. Roofus was his name. We went everywhere along the West Coast together, all the way to Vancouver. I could pass out on a corner with this mutt and Roofus would just wait by my side until I woke up. He barked like crazy if he saw the cops. He was everything to me. I didn\u2019t need anybody as long he was around.\u201d Mickey took another drink.\u00a0 \u201cWell, I had Roofus for years. Eventually, I knocked up my kid\u2019s mother, and she hated the dog. But I didn\u2019t care. I was never going to give him up. But when she finally had that baby, and I held him against my bared chest moments after he was born.\u201d He stared off for a moment. \u201cI never knew love like that. The doctor, when Adrian turned two, the doctor told us he was allergic to the dog. I gave Roofus up to the first person who would take him. I would have thrown him out the window for the kid.\u201d His eyes shined under the fluorescent light. \u201cI have nothing else.\u201d<\/p>\n
We sat in silence for a moment, until Devon\u2019s mother slowly made her way to our table. \u201cYou friends of Devon?\u201d she asked with the same stoic tone I saw during Mass.<\/p>\n
\u201cA friend,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was his roommate at the shelter,\u201d Mickey answered.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou the one who found him? Or the one who was always stealing from him?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mickey fiddled with a gold watch I\u2019d seen him take from a donation box the day before. \u201cI\u2019m the one who found him. I\u2019m not that other kind of person.\u201d<\/p>\n
Devon\u2019s mother sighed. \u201cHe had all sorts of problems. I didn\u2019t agree with the way he lived his life, but I surely hoped better for him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe all did,\u201d I said, truly believing it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell,\u201d Devon\u2019s mother said, adjusting her hat, \u201cget a good meal in you. I don\u2019t know if either of you have any children, but if you do, don\u2019t leave them. Always take them back. That\u2019s the biggest regret of my life. Not fighting hard enough for Devon. I would have died for him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know exactly what you mean,\u201d Mickey said. \u201cI promise you. I\u2019ll never let my child go.\u201d Devon\u2019s mother gave a weak smile and patted him on the shoulder before slowly making her way to the next table.<\/p>\n
As she left, Mickey\u2019s mouth parted, exposing his gums, red and inflamed. He was right, he had nothing else to live for.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mickey was gone for a few days before Jerry came into the back of the store, his shirt freshly ironed. He smiled a gold canine and motioned for me to come take a look at his phone. An Amber Alert had just gone out across Illinois. A ten-year-old kid had been taken by an estranged parent in Mt. Greenwood.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re disgusting,\u201d Jerry said with arrogance. \u201cFucking deadbeat parents using kids as bargaining chips.\u201d And he went back to the front of the store to try and sell more scraps.<\/p>\n
I walked to the back door, under the portrait of the Virgin Mary. I closed my eyes and thought of Mickey with his son on the beach, the lights flashing and the Ferris Wheel spinning. Mickey smiled, holding his child close to his chest, waves crashing with a rhythm against the sand, Mickey with a new, shiny set of teeth reflecting the moon in a dark night sky.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
His skin was tanned like old leather, a childish tattoo of No Fear scrawled across his throat, dancing as his gums flapped. I wondered if they hurt. His gums bouncing back and forth against each other. I closed my eyes while he spoke about drinking malt liquor and riding trains in his younger days. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture him with teeth.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18215","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","writer-anthony-koranda"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18215","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18215"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18215\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19003,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18215\/revisions\/19003"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18215"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18215"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18215"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}