Faded Flowers, Wilted Weeds

1

Want to know what’s tougher than being an orphan?

Being an orphan whose foster parents hate her guts too.

August 29th. That’s the date Roger and Julie are letting the house get demolished. They finally pulled the trigger and moved out of the city to upstate. Some farmhouse in Syracuse probably, with a fence that looked better in the pictures, if I had to guess. Chickens and a donkey with autism. How anyone can determine if a donkey is on the spectrum is beyond me, but apparently it’s a thing. Got it at an auction. Left me and the home alone down here. Said I can stay until demolition day under the condition that I don’t move up with them. Under the condition that our story ends here, where it started. They’ll pay for water but not heat or electricity, so you do the math on that. It’s been five and a half days so far. It isn’t that bad. Showers are cold, but it’s almost summer anyway.

August 29th. The date I have to move out of here by. Right near Morris Park – the house I brought home my first report card to. The house I had my first Christmas outside the residential facility. With the family I thought I knew. My first and only real home. At least that I can remember.

I’ll never forget when I first walked into the house. Back when Julie didn’t hate my guts. They’d just adopted me. I was a little too shy to hold onto Julie’s hand, so I clutched onto the tail of her dress lightly – how you’d hold a pencil when your teacher forced you to do cursive back in grade school. They glided up the stoop, kicked the snow off their boots, and opened the double doors for me to walk through.

The warmth of the mud room hugged my face. I looked up. A chandelier that looked like a jellyfish and shone bright as a fireball. Crown molding lined maroon walls and gold-flecked wallpaper. Family portraits filled with smiling faces, denim overalls, and frizzy hair catching the flash of the camera. A chestnut dining room table, topped with a cloth that had frilly, dangling edges. Candles everywhere. So many candles. White candles and green candles and red candles, ready to be relit and find purpose again. A chunky, silver-haired cat trotted towards us three after a quick stretch – eyes as wide as they were green. His name is, was, Reginald. I fell to the floor and began to cry. Roger and Julie kneeled down and patted my back, consolingly.

That was a long time ago though. My footsteps echo now. The dust piles up so fast, floating like fireflies through beams of light cast by windows. Many candles are now one candle that Don gave me – used matches circled its base across the hardwood. Portraits turned into empty rectangles against the wall overnight. Outside, sirens screech and spouses howl and hobos scream and children run and engines tick and dice roll and crows caw and dogs yelp and bike chains whir. Inside, floorboards creak and pipes shake and doorknobs jam and drawers stick and mice scurry and spiders knit and toilets clog and faucets tremble. Reginald gone.

And it’s weird now. I don’t know if this happens to other people too, but I can’t stop flashing from that scene to now – those two scenes, when I first stepped into this house and now, blink inside my head like a strobe light. Then now then now then now then now. Then.

“We have Frosted Flakes, Special K, or Fruity Pebbles,” Julie hollered from the kitchen, while I flicked the eyelashes of a Ferbie with my index finger. “Which would you like, sweetie?”

“For candy, Mrs. Mill–Julie?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“Is that candy?”

Her chuckle echoed across floor and ceiling. “It’s cereal, sweetheart. Those are types of cereal we have for you. Why don’t you come in and see which one you like best?”

The Ferbie lit up with thanks as I pressed down on its tongue. I rested it on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. The boxes on the island seemed to tower to the ceiling, as bright as tie dye with smiling cartoons looking down at me.

“I’m allowed to have any of them?” I asked.

She smirked, hands floating over the straps of her denim overalls. “Of course you can. It’s breakfast time, isn’t it?” Julie had the forearms you’d expect from a woman who spent a lifetime gardening out back. If she ever painted her nails, I never noticed on account of they’d get chipped to shreds the following day it seemed.

“Thank you so much,” I said, turning to face the boxes. A tiger, two men wearing togas, and a big red letter “K” stared at me, waiting anxiously for my decision. A couple back and forths, and then I pointed. “That one, please.”

“Ah, good choice. Roger loves Frosted Flakes as well. You two can bond over that. More Special K for me then.” She took down a ceramic bowl and gold spoon, placed it on the table. The box with the tiger matched the fluffy blue pillows Julie put on all the chairs about the table. She poured the milk into the bowl. I could hear it patter and the crisps start to crackle. “Hurry now, before it gets soggy.”

Then now then now then now then. Now.

I peered into the kitchen. The cabinet is empty now besides some oatmeal Don brought over. Chuckles seeped deep into the floorboards, stained it and crept into the pipes. August 29th.

August 29th.

---

The front door creaked once, twice, before it was opened.

“Babe? It’s me,” Don called.

“Coming,” I said.

I walked into the front room and gave him a kiss. His breath smelled like mint gum and menthols. I’d bathe in the scent if someone downtown could bottle it into a shampoo. He carried his guitar and a well-worn backpack, army green.

“You good?” he greeted.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just asking.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How was it tonight?” I asked.

“Some asshole made me take back his water and refill it three times before he said it tasted clean enough.”

“Rough. Was it dirty?”

“If it was, it didn’t matter – I just went in the back and kept refilling it with the same water and cup. Fuckin’ dunce,” he said with with a smirk.

“The richer, the stupider.”

“You’re goddamn right,” he said as he pulled out a smoke and lit it with a flick. “But hey, I’ve got great news.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“Well, today is Tuesday.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Which means…” he said, lifting his hands, expectantly.

“…Which means…it’s almost halfway through the week?” I replied.

“No. Which means it’s a very special day.”

“Oh, really?” I took a step toward him, and began tracing my thumb along his faded belt. “And what’s the occasion, Mr. Peters?”

“The occasion,” he reached into his backpack, “is Tea & Tequila Tuesday.” Don pulled out two bottles of Nestea Lemon Tea and one bottle of Jose Cuervo.

“Oh my God! Thank you, babe.” I gave him a hug.

“They were out of Gold, so I had to settle for Blanco, but I figured, hey, better than nothing. Right?”

“It’s perfect, Don. Thank you. You’re the best.”

“You’re the best.”

Don and I were laying on the living room floor staring up at the high ceilings. All was dark save for the candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. Julie and Roger had taken away all the bed frames and mattresses in the move, so Don jimmied together a bed mat with some spare blankets, pillows, and bath towels that were laying around his mom’s place. Even on the hardwood, it wasn’t that bad as long as you didn’t lay on your side. Don says it’s better to lay on your back anyway.

The Jose Cuervo was more than halfway empty now. Don reached for my hand and began rubbing his thumbs lightly against my nails. “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“You just did.”

“Pff. Funny. I’m being serious.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“I’ve always wondered – and by that I mean it just came to my mind – when you’re writing a song, do the melodies come to you first and then you write the lyrics? Or do you think of the lyrics first and then the melodies? Like a poem, I suppose.”

Don seemed to be gazing at the stars through the ceiling. “Hmm. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“There’s gotta be something there, babe.”

“I mean…I guess I usually write lyrics first…no, I guess both? Well, let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“When you sit down to start a painting, do you just put pencil to –”

“Paintbrush.”

“Sure. Paintbrush. Do you put brush to paper and just start, or do you have an idea in mind first?”

“That isn’t the same thing,” I replied.

“I think there’s a parallel.”

“I guess there might be.”

“Babe, come on. You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“The whole devil’s advocate thing. Just answer the question. I answered yours.”

My face warmed and colored. “Right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. There’s no need to apologize.” Don’s hand moved to my thigh.

“I’m sorry – I mean. Okay, yes. Painting. Surely I have the idea first. I wouldn’t want to waste paper or canvas.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“Have what?”

“You answered your own question by answering mine,” he said.

“The tequila’s gotten to your head, I swear.”

“What I mean is that art is art is art. However you create it. You plan first and I sometimes write lyrics first and sometimes I don’t. I’m sure Madonna’s process is different than Bono’s, you know? I don’t know if any of them are right or wrong.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You always do that. You say I’m doing the devil’s advocate thing but you always do that too – it’s almost the same thing. You never answer my questions directly, babe.”

“Hey now. I answered it.”

“Yeah, but only after giving me a diatribe about how my question was stupid. I’m just trying to talk to you. I want to know you deeper, like we talked about on the subway.”

He wrapped his arm around my head and shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I thought it was a great question. It’s just…maybe there’s never one right answer, you know? For other people, maybe, but not me. My brain never lets that happen. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t. The second I start saying one answer, I hear another voice giving me a reason why I’m wrong. And, well, a lot of times that other voice is making solid points.”

I rolled my head over and planted a delicate kiss on his cheek. “That’s why you’re an artist.” I gave him another and spoke into his ear. “That’s why I love you more than anything in this world.”

He returned my kiss and stared into my eyes. “You love me even more than Edgar the Rat?”

“You put me in a tough position there, Don.”

“I know he’s your second boyfriend.”

“He does keep me company when you’re not here. Pain in the ass though – always eats my food and scurries off without a word.”

“Sounds like a troublemaker.”

We both took a couple more swigs of tequila. My head was swooning and judging by the vacant look in Don’s eyes, he was drunk too.

“When you sell your first record, can I do the cover art?” I asked.

“I’ll have to run it by my agent and manager, but my guess is they’d say yes.”

“What would you say?”

“If I were the one in charge?”

“If you were the one in charge.”

He leaned over and kissed me. “I’d say, of course you can.”

“You know I’d do a good job, don’t you?”

“You’d do an amazing job.”

I sat up and grabbed Don’s hard-on through his pants. We made love until the sun poked its head through broken glass – sweaty sheets, rumbling cabinets, guttural moans echoing all throughout Julie and Roger’s home, now mine. Now ours.

2

You always hear about the million rejection letters from agents.

Or the struggling writers waiting tables, jumping through hoops for a shot. Not even a fair chance – just a shot. Or the writers who switch careers and land a book deal right before they croak.

I get it. Those stories I get, I mean. They’re nice to hear. They’re cute. But what about the writers who land a book deal, all their dreams come true, and it all dries up overnight? What about the writers whose sophomore slump costs them their dream? The writers who put it all on the line, finally fuckin’ break through, only to fall back down to earth?

What about writers like me?

I’ve been through lows before. Hell, what writer hasn’t? We’re an unstable bunch. I’ve experienced lows and depressive episodes and tragedies. But I’ve got to be honest when I say nothing compares to this. Nothing compares to getting that call from my agent that a third book deal wasn’t coming – that sales on the second book were too low. That I’d have to find new representation. That’s something they don’t tell you: even after your first book is published, you’ve got to keep selling. You’ve got to keep pitching. You’ve got all the worries of a debut writer with the added weight and pressure of your publisher and agent hovering down on you. A watchful eye where there once was none. A field, far as the eye could see, now fenced.

Is a dream never achieved as bad as a dream fumbled? As an opportunity – a goal you’ve had since the third fuckin’ grade – missed? Well, I’m biased, but if you couldn’t tell already, my answer is it is. It’s worse than anything I could ever imagine, really.

And that’s exactly the situation I find myself in now. Oh yeah, my name is Ray by the way. Ray Lavetti. You’ve probably never heard of me, unless you’re one of the 1,729 readers who bought one of my books.

Have I set the stage for ya’ alright? Have I painted a good fuckin’ picture? I hope so – that means I still got my chops. Well, I live in Oakland – moved here from The Bronx nine years ago for a relationship that lasted about as long as it took me to unpack my shit. She left me for a guy from Queens – go fuckin’ figure. I guess she only liked New Yorkers when they’re still 3,000 miles away.

“Babe, I’m trying to read my book,” Ms. Evil Ex called from the other room. “Can you keep it down, please?”

I lifted my fingers off the typewriter then, arguin’ with myself that I must’ve heard her wrong. “What’s that?”

“I said, can you please be a little quieter? I can hear your typing through the walls.”

“You’re reading, you said?”

“Yes. My book.”

“The one I got you?” I asked.

“No, a different one,” she called back. A different one. A fuckin’ different one. She’s readin’ a book and I’m tryin’ to write one. I couldn’t believe it. My mouth must’ve looked like the goddamn Looney Tunes, jaw falling to the floor. Too loud? She started dating a writer. Me, a writer. She knew I was a writer. Said she loved that I was a writer.

“I…I can’t type any quieter, babe.”

“There are typewriters in the library. Oakland Public has plenty.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I seriously couldn’t believe it. Moving truck paid for and everythin’. Three weeks ago. Or was it two and a half?

“What?”

“I said there are typewriters in the library,” her voice was getting louder now. I knew she was on the ropes.

“Yeah.” Don’t say it. Don’t fuckin’ say it, Ray. It’ll be bad. Don’t you dare say it. “Lots of typewriters in the library, and plenty of park benches to read your book on outside.”

I said it. Goddamnit I said it. Loud too.

Anyway, that was pretty much the end of that. Not immediately, but in the way things start to unravel like a rubber band ball kinda way. That broke me. The whole situation killed me. I stayed out here though. I wish I could say it was to stick it to her and prove her wrong and not let an ugly person ruin a beautiful place. Truth is, I was too broke to afford to move back. So, I stayed. And you know what? It ain’t bad out here. Less cockroaches, warmer winters, colder summers, and the hobos aren’t as aggressive as they are back home. Just a couple blocks from the lake too if that means anything. Lake Merritt.

Lots of shit to do here. Poetry readings if you wanted ‘em – here and across the bay in San Francisco. Bookstores. Solid food. People are nice enough. Art shows. Lots of stuff that I should be happy about, that I should be enjoyin’ I guess.

Should be. It’s all dark now though – a blur I can’t scratch out. A fog that won’t let up. I’ll be lucky if I last ‘til summer.

3

“Play it again, Don! Play it again,” Georgina called from her footstool, cigarette smoldering between black-painted nails.

“He just played it, Georgie. Last week he played it three times in a row for you,” Edwardo said, one arm wrapped around her from a matching footstool, the other hand holding a Coors.

“Isn’t that a compliment? Asking a musician for an encore?” Georgina said.

“It’s my favorite song of his as well,” I said. We were all in what used to be the dining room of the house. My house. Cans of all colors and cigarette butts dotted the dark floors. Don, center stage, sat on a wicker mat with his guitar.

Georgina wasn’t quite an orphan. She’d met her birth dad a couple times after the adoption was finalized and her new parents thought it was safe to. No weekend in the Poconos with him or anything, just a supervised lunch at some deli out in Jackson Heights. The state had taken her in after her mom overdosed, but she doesn’t remember her much. I guess trauma must have a scent because she was the first one to come up and introduce herself to me in P.E. when I changed schools for good. Showed me how to properly throw a dodgeball so it stays straight and doesn’t wobble. We’re both from the Bronx too, apparently. At least that’s what Amy, my child services coordinator, always told me – that I was born there. Since then, we’ve pretty much been as good of friends as you can be if you take out those couple months in fifth grade when she refused to speak to me after she saw me holding hands with Lucio Aguilar. Edwardo was great for her too. They’d been together for what, three, four years now? Anyway, him and Don pretty much hit it off right away with the music stuff and liking the Jets and all, so that’s always a plus.

“I’d imagine even Bowie got tired of playing Let’s Dance after a while,” Edwardo said. “Ain’t that right, Don?”

Don looked down and smiled, “I wouldn’t put myself anywhere near that level, but –”

“Yet. That level yet,” I said.

“Thanks, babe. I’m not quite there, as in I still like playing the song, but I’ve heard of a lot of stories like that – with hit songs, I mean.”

“Well, I think that’s like getting tired of your own child,” Georgina said. “You created it, you love it, people love it, so why would you be tired of it? I don’t get tired of my photographs.”

“I don’t know,” Edwardo said. “Maybe that same child steals from your purse or smells like mothballs or some shit.”

Georgina sighed. “Sheesh. Don’t play it then – I was only saying I really like the song.”

Edwardo took a long swig of his beer. “You should start playing in the subway, Don. You really should. I’ll bet you’d make good money doing that.”

“You think so?” I asked. “Do those musicians make anything?”

“Sure as hell looks like it. The good ones anyway. I always see their guitar cases filled with dollar bills and coins.”

“Probably doesn’t add up to much,” Georgina said.

“He plays the guitar and sings anyway at home and here. Why not make a little extra dough doing the same thing somewhere else? Lots of people walk through those gates. Who knows? Maybe a record exec would see you one day.”

I turned back to Don. He looked cutest when he was getting showered with compliments. He never knew how to take them – didn’t agree or disagree. He just stared at the floor, smiling and shaking his head ever so slightly. “You should try that, babe.”

“I’ve thought about it once or twice,” he said, silently plucking chords.

“Well, make it three, man. At least one of us has to make it,” said Edwardo. “That way we can buy a house like this of our own. I can only speak for myself, but I’m getting a little tired of shared apartments.”

“Oh, put a sock in it, Edwardo,” Georgina said.

“He knows I’m kidding, Georgie.” He reached over to grab Georgina’s hand. She slapped it away once, twice, before accepting it.

Edwardo turned toward me. “Stacey, when did you say they’re tearing the house down by? September?”

“August 29th,” Georgina and I replied in unison. The date ran from our mouths and clung to the walls – looking for a latch, a window, or loose brick to let it escape through. To make it not true.

“Jesus Christ. Coming up soon, huh?” he replied.

“She doesn’t want to talk about – ”

“Yeah it is,” I said, cutting Georgina short.

Edwardo gulped down the last drop of beer from his can before crushing it with his hands. “And that’s why we’ve got to party like the fucking Stones every day until then. End things with a bang.”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. No doubt.”

“What are they gonna turn it into anyway?”

“An apartment complex, I’ll bet,” said Georgina. “Makes ‘em more money than any old house would.”

“Sounds about right,” Edwardo said.

“Well, screw ‘em.” Georgina took a drag from her cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke skyward. “That one’s for that bitch, Julie. We can smoke in the house all we want to now. Huh, Stace? You remember when she freaked after I lit up on the fire escape? Sounded like a fuckin’ jackal.”

Don looked up from his guitar. “Have you guys seen the pieces Stacey’s been working on lately?”

“Pieces?” Ed asked.

“Paintings,” said Don.

Georgina sprang up. “What? You’re painting again, Stacey?”

I felt my face reddening.

“Yeah she is,” Don continued. “And you should see them. They’re gorgeous. Genius too. The meanings behind them.”

“Stace, that’s amazing. I didn’t know you were painting again. Can we see them, pretty please?” asked Georgina.

“I don’t know,” I said after a beat. “They’re not quite done. Some are, but the ones I’m really excited about are a few days from –”

“I’ll grab them,” Don said, shooting up to his feet.

“Don,” I called. “Don!”

“They want to see them, babe,” he fired back as he left the room. Ascending footsteps echoed from the front stairwell, making the house shake.

“Too late now,” Edwardo said, smiling.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were painting again, Stace?”

“I haven’t been doing it seriously or anything. Just every now and again.”

“That makes me so happy to hear,” she said, lighting up another cigarette.

He better not have gotten the oak tree piece. I know it’s his favorite, but I’ve barely started it. It just took shape now. Looks like a puddle of paint, one big mess of green and brown. Guess I’d be okay with City Skyline or Emerald Street or even Mother’s Daughter – that one was a long way from being finished as well. Might be another week or two. Maybe even three based on how slow I’ve been these past few days. Can’t find the rhythm. I wonder how many artists in the history of the world hit their peak at the age of 16 and everything else was downhill from there? I think I might be the first one.

Footsteps thundered once again, and Don emerged holding two canvases, one in each hand. “I’d have grabbed all ten, but Stacey says it can mess up the paint to have them front to back for too long.”

I felt my face going from warm to red hot. Don flipped the paintings around – at this point he might as well take a bow and watch the curtain close. Why does he always do this to me? Does he do it on purpose? Put me on the spot like this. I’ve told him time and time again. Or at least a few times. Maybe once or twice. It was all the same.

“Holy shit! You painted those?” Edwardo’s voice pulled me back in.

It was City Skyline.

“These are incredible, Stace!”

Once I switched to watercolor I felt my world open up a bit. It let me be loose and messy and unsure in ways pastels and oil couldn’t. It helped a lot with the style I was going for too. I’d always been more of a sketcher than a painter – going all the way back to the Lawson’s and the Van Doren’s, the spots I was in before Roger and Julie scooped me up. When I made the jump over to pen drawing, watercolor kind of fell into my lap after I saw all the Roald Dahl covers at the school book fair. I remember tracing my nails across the thick printing paper I had painted my first watercolor piece on. I felt like I could taste the colors. The first night after Roger and Julie left, Don recommended we lay on top of the roof together, on account of we didn’t have to sneak around to do so anymore. When I saw the skyline that night, I knew I had to put paint to it.

Don’s dimples and bright teeth showed as he held up the paintings proudly, like prized birds he brought back home after a hunt. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

“Georgie told me the both of you used to paint growing up. But I didn’t think you painted like this. That’s rad.”

“They’re a few weeks from being done, but I’m glad you like them,” I said.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Edwardo replied, cracking open another can of beer with a hiss.

“Just don’t forget about us when you’re doing art exhibits around the world, Stace. You promise?” Georgina asked.

I didn’t mean to purse my lips when I said it. I meant to smile, smirk at the very least. “As long as you all don’t forget about me when I’m homeless in a couple months.”

4

Nelson’s Books. 2476 Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. Established in 1971.

Steady traffic over the course of the day. Students mostly, some teachers. Or, professors I guess. By the looks of it.

The front entrance led straight into the lower level. That’s where all the best books were. Poetry, essays, short stories from some of the best to ever do it. Open mics and readings from the beatniks happened just a few doors down, and yet all these kids wanted to read was sci-fi and whatever other elf shit there was on the shelf. Nah. Keep your first floor. Keep your Tolkien’s and C.S. Lewis’s and the lot. I’ll gladly take the basement with the Kerouac’s of the world. Or, underworld I suppose.

Anyway, it was a good fuckin’ shop. Dorothy and crew did things the right way here at Nelson’s. Good selection of nonfiction too. I always preferred the soul of bookstores to the sterile of libraries. Don’t get me wrong, they’re necessary, and I’m glad they’re around, but eh. They’re like…like pet ferrets. I’m sure somebody prefers ‘em to dogs and cats, but not me.

You’ve got your regulars here in the store. Browsing bums, the procrastinating English majors, the Berkeley locals who preferred greeting you with the number of years they’ve lived in the neighborhood more than they did their name, and then starry-eyed tourists who came across the bridge, likely off a recommendation from a hippie on Haight. Always nice seeing the band together.

I take the BART here every Saturday at 10:30am from Lake Merritt station. That’s the only time I really hop on the train anymore unless there’s a reading in the city I can’t get out of. Everyone new to the Bay Area complains about the BART it seems. Sure, it smells like a sewer, but hey, at least it ain’t the New York subway. Can’t even read the paper in peace on that damn thing on account of someone might sneak up and snatch your shit. I’d pay a pretty penny to see some dunce steal my briefcase, sprint back to their crummy apartment with their rat shit friends only to find some sloppily written poems in a tattered legal pad. Buddy, if you manage to sell my work for a profit, be sure to let me know the secret. We’ll keep it between us, and my agent out of it.

Agents. I’ve wondered, when they’re all together boozed up during their little Manhattan dinners or Beverly Hills brunches, do you think they talk as much shit about artists as we do about them? They gotta, right? Exchanging stories about “creative control” squabbles for a writer destined to sell a couple dozen copies. It’s gotta be exhausting dealing with our bullshit sometimes. I feel like us writers, collectively, are so adamant about having full control over our work because we’ve got zero fuckin’ control anywhere else. That blank page – the cruelest bitch on the planet, taking everything from us. Our careers, financial security, hell, our sanity too. And yet we keep goin’ back like a crack fiend hoping this bump will be the last. Hoping stability, freedom, notoriety is mere moments away…

Damn, I should write that one down. Where’s my pen? Where’d I put that thing?

The loudspeaker rang out. “Downtown Berkeley. Downtown Berkeley station.”

Piece ‘a shit. Oh well. Won’t sell a dime anyway.

---

“Emily,” I said, strolling in.

“Hey, Ray!” She greeted back from the front desk. After a long line of two-weekers and one-monthers, Emily had been working at Nelson’s longer than anyone I’d seen since I started going there. I imagine the others who quit romanticized what it would be like working at a bookstore. “Still down on shelf 389, last I checked.”

“A cause for celebration,” I said. “Alright. I’ll see ya.”

“Yep. See you.”

I browsed a bit before making my way downstairs. Browsed a bit more before making my way past the double digit shelves and into the hundreds – two hundred, three hundred.

There it was. Same as it looked last Saturday. Shelf 389. It was a decent shelf. Had a couple nicks on the edges, but I suppose that’s typical wear and tear of a tin shelf. The wooden ones are all upstairs.

I had some good company on that shelf, some local poets who placed in state-wide contests here and there. I’d seen new books bordering mine become old books – they’d come and go as the sales would trickle in slower than a leaky fuckin’ faucet.

Funny, the book’s usually right by the center here. Books, plural, being there’s seven copies, always ordered alphabetically. Nelson’s was always alphabetical – unless they changed that…no, couldn’t have. Top shelf has A-D, it’s right there. A to fuckin’ D. Where the hell…must have been someone pickin’ it up then back down…but for all seven of the copies, Ray? You’re a dope for even thinkin’ that. You’re a dunce.

Where the hell is my goddamn book?

Doris…where the hell is Doris? I blinked once and was back upstairs. At the front desk again. “Doris working today?”

Emily shuffled her feet a bit. “I think she’s on break in the back. Last I checked, that’s where she was.”

“Thanks,” I said. At least I think I said it. I must’ve said it.

“She really doesn’t like being interrupted on her breaks, Ray.”

“Thanks,” I know I said it that time. Must’ve on account of her face. I turned around, and pedaled toward the back hallway, through the teen fiction and mystery junk and talking heads who think they’re important enough for a memoir.

Don’t make an ass of yourself like you always do, Ray. Have some goddamn dignity for once, will ya?

No. I’m doin’ it.

C’mon, Ray. Can you have some sense? Please.

I’m doin’ it.

It ain’t her fuckin’ fault. You know it ain’t. She’s got a business to run.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Doris. Doris, open up!”

Bang! Bang! Bang! I waited.

“Your turn, Ray,” Mom said.

“Look how big his smile is,” Ricky called, finger pointed at me, bowl cut makin’ him look like an even bigger doofus than normal. “Smilin’ like Becky finally looked at him.”

“I’m doin’ my best impersonation of you when you see meatballs, Piggy Ricky,” I shot back. That shut him up for a good few seconds. He really was slower than molasses, Ricky was.

“Ray! Be nice,” Mom called. We were all gathered in the living room, handing out presents to my Uncle Fred before he moved away to Ann Arbor after the girl he’d been seein’ got a nursing gig there. Our best attempt at a goodbye party. I couldn’t have been older than thirteen, fourteen maybe. “Come now, Ray. Your turn,” Mom repeated. I listened this time, hands tremblin’ a bit as I reached into my book bag – took out a stack of handwritten papers I had stapled together.

“Jesus. You wrote Uncle Fred a novel?” Ricky shouted as I walked up.

“It’s one of his poems, Ricky,” said Mom. That caused a snicker out of him. Out of the fat pig mouth of his. Chocolate-eatin’, Oreo-snatchin’ bastard. “He wrote you one of his poems, Fred. Ray did.”

I handed the papers to Uncle Fred. He took them, thin gold chain shimmering under the fanlight. That little packet must’ve taken fifteen, twenty hours, if I had to guess. Writing, rewriting, crossing out, circling, underlining, the whole gambit. It feels weird just forking over something like that, something you put all that thought into.

“Ah, Ray. That’s sweet of ya,” he said, leafing through it. He put his reading glasses on. My stomach was droppin’ to the floor by then. The room was quiet for a few moments. Not one chirp. He took his glasses off. Was he that fast of a reader? He couldn’t have been that fast.

“I’m…I’m gonna miss you, Uncle Fred,” I squeaked.

“I’m gonna miss you too, buddy,” he said, patting my back and folding the papers.

“Did you finish it?” I asked.

“I’ll finish it at home,” he said, which wouldn’t have been that bad in and of itself. I wouldn’t have freaked if that was it. Only thing is, later that night as he was leaving, I noticed the poem was still folded on the coffee table after he slammed the door behind him, kinda tipsy. I ran outside after him – he was starting to load up the Chevy then. Pies, sandwiches, wine bottles, a spatula.

“Uncle Fred!” I shouted. “You forgot the poem I wrote you.”

I jogged over, held it out to him. His face was what set me off. He held the packet in his hands for a minute. That look, not at me – at the papers, but it might as well had been me. Apathy. Pure, unfiltered apathy. I didn’t mean to break his jaw, I fuckin’ loved the guy. I wouldn’t have swung if I had known it was gonna hurt him that bad. But I wound up, connected, and he fell. Fell like one of those bowling pins that wobble, wobble, drop.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Doris! Where’s my book? Where’d my book go?”

Through the wooden door, you could hear the skittling of an office chair across linoleum. Tin foil and saran wrap getting balled up. The sealing of a tupperware top. “Doris?”

“I’m on break, Ray,” she called back.

“My book.”

“I’m not answering that door until you settle down, Ray.”

“I am settled, Doris. I’m calm as a fuckin’ cat. I just need to know what happened to my book.”

A pause.

Pauses.

Pauses were the worst. I knew pauses all too fuckin’ well, I’m the king of pauses. Pauses when my girl told me she was leavin’. Pauses when I asked for candid feedback from my publisher. Pauses when my agent told me why the third book wasn’t getting a deal. The moment they were searching for the right words – trying to find the best way to mask their pity inside a silver lining.

Pauses. After a long one, that’s when I’d always lie, and say somethin’ like:

“Just give it to me straight, Doris. Just tell me the truth.”

She sighed. I can picture her sighing from outside the door. I can’t see her but I know she’s fuckin’ sighing. “The books are still here, Ray. They’re still in the store.”

It was my turn to pause…where could they…

“Oh, no! You put me in the bargain bin? Doris…”

“They weren’t selling, Ray.”

“The fuckin’ bargain bin.”

“I try my very best to support local talent. You know that.”

“In the bin. Right next to the coffee-stained classics and goddamn knitting books.”

“I had your books on the shelf as long as I could, Ray.”

“I’m a poet, Doris. I’m an artist.”

“I need that shelf space, Ray.”

“Doris.”

“I’m sorry, Ray. I really am.” Her voice was muffled through the door. I heard her zip open her lunch bag and put away the tupperware.

That’s when I fell, back against the wall…

Keep it together, Ray.

Slid down to a seated position…

Come on. Don’t do it, Ray.

And started to weep.

5

Beer cans and cigarette butts still peppered the hardwood a few hours later. It was just Don and I then. I liked when the others came over – Georgie, Edwardo and whoever else they brought along – but it always felt nice closing that door behind them with a wave. Index finger laced in Don’s belt loop. That first embrace and kiss after the lock clicked.

We were on the bed now. Don snored quietly in my ear, arms wrapped around my waist. I had to pee, and after going in and out of consciousness, I realized it was one of those times that couldn’t wait until the morning. I fumbled around in the darkness for the flashlight Don had bought me. More reliable than the candles I had been using, and didn’t require matches he’d said. I joked that if the house was already getting bulldozed then we might as well burn it down ourselves. But it did feel good not having to grab for two things during my nightly trips to the bathroom.

I walked into the bathroom. Never used this 2nd floor bathroom much before Roger and Julie left. Well, except for a few times. Once when Roger finally flipped his lid and started screaming at me for dripping paint on my bedroom floor on account of it left stains. I didn’t realize it had dripped at all since the paint was as brown as the hardwood floors, but apparently that didn’t matter to Roger. Reckless, entitled, good-for-nothing – all words I remember him spewing at me through his bifocals, strands of coarse hair worming from his nose. He swore up and down to Julie he never said those things. I remember sprinting upstairs, locking this bathroom door and sobbing until my throat hurt trying to hold in the heaves and sounds. I hid in here until Julie came back home. I heard them fighting downstairs, a little more clearly than muffles through the vent. Julie eventually knocked and the door creaked open. She knelt on the floor – must’ve opened with some sort of empty greeting but I only remember one thing from that conversation. “Honey, you’ve gotta double tap the brushes on the side of the cups from now on. It keeps them from dripping, okay?” The first gut punch. Probably the worst one until they left. Yeah…until they left.

That bitch. That cold-hearted…bitch. Bitch! BITCH! I couldn’t find anything to throw within arms distance sitting on the toilet, so slapping the tops of my thighs would have to do. I slapped and grunted and slapped again.

CRASH!

My heart shot into my throat.

“What the hell?” I think I whispered it aloud. I must have. The sound rippled through the walls from downstairs. I shot up and fumbled to pull up and button my pants. I grabbed the flashlight, opened the door and – squealed. It would’ve been a scream if Don hadn’t put his hand over my mouth.

“Did you hear that, babe? What is it?” I said through his fingers.

“Shh,” he answered. “I don’t know. Follow me. No talking. Okay?”

Hot tears welled up in my eyes then. I could feel Don’s calloused fingers as he gripped tightly onto my hand in the darkness, leading me to the spare room on the third floor. Down below, voices echoed – low and gruff. Rubber soles grated the dusty floors.

At the Van Loren’s, I remember sneaking off from my room down the hall and to the kitchen late into the night, gently cracking the fridge door open to a sea of light. Jars of jelly and cartons of milk and pitchers of summertime lemonade stared back at me. I’d sneak a glass of the lemonade, and whenever I did, I’d walk toe to heel to make sure the floors didn’t creak as I crept back to my room – a bank thief fresh off a heist.

Toe to heel. Toe to heel. Toe to heel.

It seemed impossible to do that now, but I tried. Toe to heel. Toe to heel.

“Who’s down there, Don?” The tears were coming down now.

“I don’t know, babe. No one good. Probably just a couple of bums. We’ll be okay though.”

“Shouldn’t we go into the attic?”

“That’ll make too much noise from the top. Here,” he whispered, grabbing the flashlight from my hands. In the back corner of the room was the main closet. To the right, there was a smaller, almost sliver of a closet. That’s where Julie kept all her spare dresses and gowns, even though this was meant to be the guest room. Don opened the closet doors gingerly.

“Get in,” he said.

“Aren’t you getting in with me?”

“Yeah, I will. Just get in.”

I crawled into the space and sat down, clutching my knees to my chin. Don closed one of the doors. Poking my head out, “Babe. Get in with me!”

Whoever was downstairs was still on the first floor – laughing now. They probably were walking through the minefield of cigarette butts and beer cans, wondering how God could be so cruel that there weren’t any leftovers for them. Just empty cabinets and naked pantries.

“I’m coming, just wait,” he said.

Don opened the bigger closet and pulled out…a full body mirror. I thought Julie had taken that with her. She had the other two mirrors with her, but after all she was vain enough to own a dozen. I guess every moving van has its limits. Don dragged it over to the closet I was inside and carefully rested it against the door.

Footsteps reverberated through the house. They must be coming upstairs now – second floor. I tucked my head between my knees as Don crawled inside, gently closing the door, making sure to steady the mirror as he did.

He sat down and put his arms around me. I tried to muffle my sniffles and tears. Was this the same closet I hid in the first time Roger spanked me? It might’ve been. Don’s body was warm against mine. It was usually cold. We joked about how I was the one who warmed him up and that he probably had some distant relation to the vikings since his blood never seemed to get above freezing.

The distant chuckles and dragging footsteps got a little closer. I could hear the opening and slamming of cabinet doors, probably looking for something that would be worthwhile to resell. How disappointed they must be looking from the outside in. Roger and Julie stripped this place clean. I wonder how long they’ve been scoping it out. How many rounds did they make through the neighborhood before noticing the owners weren’t on vacation?

They were coming upstairs now. The footsteps thundered. Every part of my body felt like it had a pulsing heart of its own. Tears turned cold and sweat took its place. “It’s gonna be okay,” Don whispered in my ear. The stranger burst open the door of the guest room then. Flashlight beams scoured the floorboards. Searching. Sniffing.

The man’s heavy breathing filled the spaces between the sound of rubber boots peeling against the floor. He broke open the master closet, and waited a beat before slamming the door shut and punching it once, twice, three times for good measure.

“Anything?” a voice called out from the other room.

“Not a goddamn thing. A shitty mirror and an empty closet,” the voice in this room shouted back.

“Same fuckin’ thing, man.”

The beam of the flashlight perused through the room now in a flurry. Its fingers filled our crawlspace for a moment, two, three…four. Footsteps. The light reflected off Don’s faded Converse sneakers for another moment, two, three. More footsteps. Tears filled my eyes again as I looked at Don. He slowly raised his finger to his lips – I could see it trembling slightly.

I was holding onto his leg, palms damp with sweat. Any moment, the man with the flashlight would toss aside that mirror. He’d rip open the door and skin us alive. He’d kill Don first and then they’d both tie me down. They’d torture me until it was finally my turn to go too. Their breath would reek and their hands would be hairy. And the place that was once her safe haven from harm, the place that was once her home, had now become a skeleton of that. I could hear it now. It’d gone from a home to a place for shelter and now it would be the place she met her end.

Why did it always have to be this way? Why did every sandcastle have to meet a wave one second after I had put the finishing touches on it? When would it all stop?

When could I just…rest? Breathe?

“Ralph,” the other voice called. “Ralph? …Ralph!”

“What, goddammit?”

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“Just come here! Think I found something.”

“Alright, alright.”

The flashlight beam turned and we were back in the darkness. Together.

It might have been twenty minutes or two hours before Don and I heard them back downstairs. There was some commotion, some tossing of things before they slammed the oak double doors behind them.

“Let’s wait a few more minutes. Just in case,” he said.

“Can I open the door at least? I can’t breathe.”

“Yeah.” He opened it. A rush of air cool hit my face. A rat scurried across the floor with a squeak.

We waited for an hour or more before heading back downstairs – continuing to tiptoe, flashlight as our guide. I held tightly onto Don’s hip.

“No…” Don whispered.

I grabbed onto him tighter, jumping. “What?”

He stayed quiet.

“Babe, what?”

The beam of the flashlight came to a halt – shadowy edges swaying as Don’s hand shook. I looked and saw what made him stop: his guitar, and my paintings – all of them – were shredded and strewn all over the floor. Right next to the crushed beer cans and cigarette butts.

I fell to my knees and wept. Don joined in with me. I don’t think I’d ever stop.

6

“I wasn’t actually gonna set the place on fire, Rick.”

“That’s not what the papers said.”

“Well, fuck the papers.”

“Fuck the papers, eh?” Rick looked at me through the visitation booth window. He always pursed his lips in this horrific sorta way when he was about to explode, like a kernel was lodged in his top molar – since we were kids he’d do that.

“Yeah. Fuck the papers!” I repeated.

“Funny. Last year you were beggin’ to get into those papers.”

“Yeah…not like this, you dip shit. With my work!” I was really white knucklin’ the phone now. It was slidin’ around in my grip. Like a…like a bike’s handlebars during a day-long ride or somethin’. Like a baseball bat in the 9th inning.

“You’re crazy, Ray. You’re a fucking lunatic!”

“Yeah, alright.”

“You are! You’re a maniac. You’re really gonna get yourself hurt, man.”

“Too fuckin’ late for that, Rick.”

He exhaled one of those disappointed big brother sighs at me. “How bad did he get you?”

“Well…one eye is swollen from the bottom and the other from the top. You do the math.”

“Jesus, Ray.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you have to go and do that, huh?”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “I wasn’t gonna actually burn it down.”

“Not that, you dope. The cop. Why’d you have to go and do that to him, Ray?”

“I wasn’t being serious.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

“I wasn’t!”

I could tell he was about to crack. He was about to slam the fuckin’ phone on the glass and make a scene. He didn’t though. He lowered his head, took a moment, raised it back up. “It don’t matter. Haven’t you heard of the…the screaming ‘fire’ in a crowded place type of shit? That law?”

“What about it?”

“It’s against the law to do stuff like that.”

“I didn’t yell ‘fire’,” I said.

“I know you didn’t. It’s a figure of speech – or whatever the fuck.”

“Figure of speech?”

“Forget it. Fucking forget it. You’re a mess, Ray. You’re an absolute mess.”

“I know.”

“You’re a mess.”

I tried keeping it together. I really did. When I woke up this mornin’ and the guard told me Rick was comin’ I pledged to keep it together. Took a bet with myself and everything. But here I was, slamming my hands on the table. It must’ve been his face. It had to have been his face, as piggish as ever. I’m honestly surprised he made the trip out here in the first place – couldn’t even get him to visit my flat across town in Brooklyn unless it was Thanksgiving. “She took down my books, Rick! All of them.” I was really bellowing out now, spit flyin’ and all that.

“Hey, hey. Keep it down, will ya?”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! She took down all my books. They’re gone!”

“Who?” he asked.

“Doris, the owner. She tossed all my books into the trash. My life’s work, Rick! Done. Tossed. Trash.”

“I’m sorry, Ray…”

I rubbed my head, makin’ sure not to touch the eyes. Everything was spinning like a top. “Wait a minute…you thought I did all of that just because of…you think I’d just…”

He turned away then. “We weren’t sure, Ray.”

“You and Mom? Both of you?”

The glass might as well have turned to brick. “We haven’t heard from you in a long time.”

“Wow…wow.”

“We haven’t heard from you after everything happened last year. You’ve been a ghost. Mom always – ”

“Okay,” I said.

“She always asks about you. She wants to see you.”

“Yeah.”

“Ray.” I didn’t answer. “Ray. Come on now.”

“Mr. Lavetti, time is up,” the prison guard’s voice rang through the chasm.

“Yeah. Alright,” I said.

Rick shifted in his seat. “Ray, look, I talked with Mom and Uncle Todd. They said they’d pay your bail as long as you come back home.”

“To New York?” I asked.

“Yes. Come back home, will ya?”

“Five minutes are up, Mr. Lavetti,” the guard repeated.

“Yeah, okay,” I replied.

“You’ll come back?” Rick asked.

“No. Tell Mom to keep it. I’m not taking her damn money.”

“Ray.”

“I’m not doin’ it!”

“You’re bein’ ridiculous. You’re just gonna keep diggin’ yourself deeper out here!” Rick was the one belting out now. He’d be punching the glass soon I bet. “Come home!”

“Look – you don’t think I know I’m a mess? You think I asked for this? You don’t think I wish every fuckin’ day that I had a passion for goddamn dentistry or teaching or carpentry? I tried everything, Rick. Every goddamn thing and hobby and trade and it’s always the same. You think I want this? This? Breaking bookstore windows, begging agents to give me a chance? Begging readers to give me a chance? This is the hand I was fucking dealt, Rick! I’m a writer, a lousy one, but a writer. I have to do this, it isn’t a choice…it sucks. It just plain sucks… Now get the hell off the line. Keep your money.”

I wanted to take the lump formin’ in the back of my throat and choke on it – it’d make for a better ending.

“Mr. Lavetti!” the prison guard snapped.

“I’m fuckin’ comin’!”

7

Three days until the demolition.

Three days until the crane would come with the wrecking ball…or at least that’s how I’m imagining it’d go. I wouldn’t be here. Don and I would be long gone. We’re taking the train to Seattle. He should have enough money to get us about half way and then we’ll hop from there. Edwardo’s cousin is big in the train hopping community apparently, which I didn’t really know was a thing until he told me, so he’ll be helping us with that if we need it.

I was skeptical of Seattle at first. It was so far away, but when I told that to Don he said that’s why he thinks I shouldn’t be skeptical. He wants me to get as far away from New York as geographically, emotionally, and mentally possible.

There’s supposed to be a good music scene there too. Don’s old middle school friend lives out in a co-op house and he’s going to give us a couch until we get jobs. Don said there’s an active art community too. I haven’t painted since the incident happened. Don said based on the commotion we heard downstairs that night, he figured the robbers must’ve gotten pissed they didn’t find anything they could pawn off, so they went on a drug-fueled tirade and destroyed everything. His best guess. Took Don all night to calm me down. He immediately swept the pieces up – fragments of canvas and shards of guitar wood. He saved up and bought a few blank portraits and got a set of brushes from his aunt’s place for me, but it didn’t help. One night, I got as far as dabbing the brush in blue and red paint, but gave up an inch or so from the canvas.

Years ago, Julie’s sister passed away. It sent the house into a spiral for months. Roger and I would take turns bringing up plates to her. I’ll never forget what she said to me when I asked her if she’d be able to make it to the fall musical. I was playing Patty Simcox in Grease. She told me her entire body ached, inside and out, forwards and backwards.

That’s how I feel now. It all hurts. All day it hurts. Everywhere.

Tap tap tap…tap tap.

Don was at the door. I waded into the front room and opened it. He was wearing his faded denims, black and blue flannel, and brown leather jacket. He readjusted his backpack before leaning in and planting a kiss on my forehead. I returned the kiss and let him in.

We sat on the lawn chairs laid out in the center of what used to be the dining room.

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

“I would’ve slept better if you were here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Edgar the Rat kept me company most of the night.” I tried to smile, but it probably just looked like pursed lips.

“I trust him,” he said. “Soon enough we’ll be sleeping in the same bed. A real bed. Every night.”

“Soon enough. Three days, and however long it takes us to get there.”

“Yep. It’ll be here before we know it.” He craned his neck over and kissed me again.

“How was Edwardo’s?”

“Oh, it was fine. We just played more D&D and jammed a little.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he handling everything? Is he doing better?” I asked, grabbing Don’s hand.

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine. Gives me grief but he’s fine.”

“Are you fine?”

“Me? Yeah. He’s gonna come visit in October. So we’ll be able to see him in no time. I keep remindin’ him of that. Hell, I think he’d love Seattle too. Rather the rain than the snow.” His eyes were far away, looking through walls and doors like windows.

“It’ll go by quick. Those two months,” I said.

“Yeah. In no time.”

“…It is far away though, babe. Seattle.”

“That’s the best part. Fuck New York. Fuck the city, fuck upstate, fuck all of it.”

“Yeah.”

I wanted to join in on the chorus line of ‘fuck you’s’. And a part of me did. A big part even. The city was my abuser, but the other half of me knew I’d be back. Someway, somehow. I was a part of something special here. Me, a kid, orphaned twice. The people who make up the city are as big a part of its composition as the chipped sidewalk block on the street corner or the bodega you passed a thousand times but never went into or the graffiti that decorated every street sign. The city was the backbone and we were the blood – the people. Hellhole or not, I was connected to this place. Some sort of spiritual thing, maybe.

I had found new comfort when Roger and Julie had taken me in. They were so warm in those first five or so years. What went wrong? Where did it all go south? Don always tells me it’s no use in wondering, and they’re just terrible people, but it must’ve been something. I’d heard a hundred stories of horrible foster parents, those who were in it for the tax dollars, but they just…didn’t seem that way. They couldn’t have. There was always a reason.

Was it all the D’s I got in pre-algebra? I tried my best. I really did. I’m just not a math person. I suppose I could’ve helped more with the dishes and Saturday morning cleaning. Maybe that was it. Little things add up after a while if you don’t address them. That’s how you hear about all those spouse murder scandals and stuff.

Some people might think the toughest emotion, or expression, to ever see is anger or hatred or total sorrow. I don’t think so. I think the hardest expression to see is indifference – someone who used to wrap their arms around you now looking through you. Blank eyes and empty faces. I thought I’d got all my crying and screaming and yelling out long before they actually packed up. I thought I had. But that blank look, that indifference on their faces in the moving truck when I was crying my eyes out waving bye to them – that took me out. That pain felt…physical.

“How do you feel?” Don asked, snapping me back.

“Oh. I feel okay. The migraines, you mean?”

He shook his head. “No, Stacey. How do you feel?”

I inhaled deeply. “I feel…scared, babe. I just feel so scared.” Tears began to build up on the sides of my eyes then.

He wrapped his arm around me, the warmth of his skin grazing my neck.

“Scared of what, babe? You have me. And this place…it’s been no good to you. It’s been no good to us both.”

I wiped the first tear that fell with the back of my hand.

“I want to read you something,” he said.

“What?”

“I want to read you something. I’ve been trying to write you a song for a long time about this whole thing. I’m almost there, but you ever read something and were like, ‘Wow, that’s it. That’s the thing I was thinking’?”

He was fumbling through his backpack for a few moments before pulling out a worn-down paperback – pages yellow and front cover creased.

“Georgina loaned me this book a while back and I finally got around to reading it. It was one of her mother’s favorites, she told me.”

“That was…nice of her.”

“There’s a passage I starred and circled at the end. It was already highlighted though.”

“Okay,” I said.

I squinted my eyes, wrinkled my nose to get a better look. Through the tattered front cover, the title of the book finally became visible: A Ballad for The Bronx by Ray Lavetti.

Don opened it up, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud.

“My child, when you’re on hands and knees, kissing cement, kicking back the lump in your throat, and the sky feels no taller than a basketball hoop, remember these words… Just as flowers fade, weeds will wilt too. Just as the good memories come to an end, just as the people you love come and go, just as the situations you felt were right, that were damn near perfect, end unexpectedly – the bad times will come to an end as well. Whether it takes a day or a decade, a minute or a month, the weeds will droop, sag, and wither away the same as all the flowers did. Allowing for you to breathe in the clean air once again, deep, lungs filling with fire…This, and this only, I know for certain. And chances are, you do too. I just wanted to make sure you heard them again today.”