Jesús Rodríguez pulled out of the busy rush of early-evening traffic on the Boulevard and parked the motorcycle in the “NO PARKING” zone beside the fire hydrant in front of the Courthouse.  “Shit.” he cursed quietly, the movement of his mouth barely visible beneath his straggly black moustache and bushy black beard.  “Goddamn knees.”

He leaned forward on the sweat-stained, contoured leather seat of the bike, his large hands still squeezing the grips of the handlebars, and bent his stiff legs slowly, one at a time, flexing the knees.  “Shit.” he muttered again, satisfying the pain.

Releasing the handgrips, Jesús opened his hands wide and stretched his fingers, then combed his shoulder-length black hair back from his face with his hands.  He adjusted a pair of heavy metal bracelets, one on each arm, which had slipped down to his wrists.  He pushed them up on his arms, past tattoos of a rearing stallion on the inside of his left forearm and a diving eagle on the inside of his right forearm, until they were hidden by the sleeves of his denim work shirt and jacket.  On the back of the jacket was a large black circle around an off-center white circle containing the black number “8”.  Black letters on a white banner above the circle spelled EIGHTBALL.  Turning his head, Jesús stared at the immense, eight-story white marble Courthouse building, and slowly began to count out loud to himself.  “One… two… three…”

The front of the Courthouse shone bright in the darkness, lit up by eight huge spotlights, but the other three sides of the building were dark.  There were sixty-four steps leading up to the eight doors in the front of the building.  Jesús had counted them hundreds of times.  There were sixty-four of them, eight sets of eight steps, with a long flat terrace between each set.  At the top of the steps were eight tall white columns, and behind the eight columns was a wall of glass—big eight-foot squares of tinted blue glass—and behind the glass was the lobby of the Courthouse, which was always lit up at night.  This lobby was the office of Old Pete, the night watchman and janitor, who did not know Jesús, and did not know that Jesús loved—and hated— the Courthouse more than any other building in the City.  “Six… seven… eight.” counted Jesús slowly.  “Eight times eight.  Sixty-four.  —  Eight times eight is always sixty-four.” 

 Jesús turned his head in the opposite direction and stared across the Boulevard at the neon-blinking line of hotels and restaurants and parking garages where conventions and salesmen and vacationing out-of-towners slept and ate and parked their cars.  The parking garages were full, and there were lights in many of the windows on the upper floors of the hotels.  And here and there a couple, or a family, or a group of businessmen were going into a restaurant to eat. 

“Business sure looks good tonight.” thought Jesús, with a smile.

“Jesus?” asked a voice hesitantly from behind him.  “Is that’s you?”

Jesús turned and looked at the old man on the sidewalk for a long moment.  “Hello, Joey.” he said quietly. 

“Why don’ts you go on over there and checks in?  Tell them you is a salesman… or a fireman – they’s lots of them in town.”

“A fireman?” asked Jesús.

“Tell them you wants the biggest room and the softest bed, and the biggest steak and the best bottle of old bad wine they gots over there.”

“Why don’t you bite my ass, Joey?”

“Okay, if you says so.  Didn’t eat me no breakfast.  Didn’t eat me no lunch.  And alls I had for dinner was old bad wine.  But if you says so… I’ll bites it just for to put some meat in my stomach.”

Jesús and Joey laughed together.  “Where has you been?” asked Joey suddenly.  “Where’d you gets the bike?”

Jesús stomped down a stand to hold the motorcycle upright and got off the bike, swinging his leg over the seat awkwardly.  He bounced up and down, flexing and popping the joints in his knees, pulling at his jeans where sweat has stuck them to his groin and buttocks.  He pulled the key from the ignition, put it in his watch pocket, and stepped over the curb onto the sidewalk.  “What bike?” he asked, putting up his fists to fight.

Jesús began to dance stiffly around Joey, throwing lazy punches that are well wide of any target.  Joey turned as Jesús danced, always facing him, his hands coming up instinctively to defend himself.  In one hand, Joey held a fistful of strings, which are tied at the other end to a dozen red, white, and blue helium-filled balloons.  Suddenly, Jesús stopped dancing, and his hands fell to his sides.  Joey’s back was turned to the motorcycle.  “What’s all this shit?” said Jesús, reaching out again to grab at Joey’s coat and the fistful of strings that he held.

Joey took a step backwards.  “Is my job now… works for Mister Wilson… from the church where Rusty works.  Balloons salesman.  Mister Wilson gots me the permits from the Courthouse.”

Joey straightened the dark, worn, mismatched suit that he wore, pulling up the pants and buttoning the coat.  The coat was too small for him and fit too tightly.  The pants were too large and baggy around the legs.  He wore a white shirt with a high collar buttoned tight against his neck, but he wore no tie. His black winter hat was soiled and shapeless.

“So, Wilson got you, too.  Caught you feeling sorry for yourself?  Saved your goddamn soul for you?  Just like he did to Rusty.”

“Mister Wilson ain’t gots nobody.” said Joey.  “He just helpers me and Rusty, that’s all.  He knows all the peoples in the Courthouse.”

“Some help.  You say you had plenty to eat today?  Breakfast, lunch, AND dinner?”

Joey stared defiantly at Jesús, but did not answer.

“Is that goddamn hot dog place still up on the corner?” asked Jesús, pointing across the Boulevard.

Joey nodded.

Jesús started walking up the sidewalk in the direction of the hot dog stand.  “Come on then, and let me buy you some goddamn supper.”

Joey hesitated, but then began to walk sulkily behind Jesús, as if he were a child.  “Can I has a ice cream cone, too, Daddy?” asked Joey.

Jesús turned, and Joey stopped.  “Fuck you then.” said Jesús, walking away again.  “I don’t care if you eat today or not.”

Joey moved up quickly beside Jesús.  “Mister Wilson ain’t gots nobody.” he repeated.

“Goddammit, are you hungry or not?”

“Yes.” said Joey quietly.

The two men walked in silence for several moments toward the hot dog stand.  “Is you going to works tonight, Jesus?” asked Joey, finally.

Jesús stared silently, almost angry again, but then answered sullenly.  “Maybe…don’t know.  Where’s the young cop?  He still work the nights around here?”

“Still works it.  Ain’t seen him yet.  But I knows where he’s at.”

“Where?”

“In the movie show.  Talking to that big girl at the candy counter.”

“You mean Big Tits?  Is she still around?”

Joey nodded quickly, unable to hide his embarrassment.  “He spend about half of every hour in there… talks to her.”

Jesús chuckled.  “Sounds like he’s got her on his mind, man.  — But maybe he just likes candy?”

Joey looked down at the sidewalk and said nothing.

“And she’s got just the kind of candy he likes.” said Jesús, after a moment, laughing at his own joke.

Again, Joey did not respond.

The two men walked on together in an uncomfortable silence.  Joey walked with his head down, carefully avoiding stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk.  Jesús walked with his head up, looking all around, and particularly back over his shoulder at the Courthouse.  He stared across the Boulevard at the tall restaurant and hotel buildings of New Town, and at the dozens of darkened office buildings behind them.  And he looked at the young trees and manicured grass of the Park, which has been built beside the Courthouse, where once there was an old neighborhood running all the way down to the River, a part of Old Town before the Courthouse was built.

In his mind and imagination, Jesus thinks of Old Town on the other side of the Courthouse—the factory-working people in their small houses and small Mom-and-Pop stores, in their cheap walk-up apartments and cheaper hotel rooms, shopping at the supermarket and the five-and-dime store, eating at lunch counters, drinking in their bars and taverns on Saturday night, going to church on Sunday morning, and on every other day of the week walking across the railroad tracks to work in the mills.

And Jesus thinks of the four blocks directly behind the Courthouse, the Block, where the bar girls hustle drinks in the strip-and-clip joints, and where the hookers hide in doorways waiting for customers, and where the peep shows and the sex shops do a booming business.

The two men crossed the Boulevard carefully at a corner, Jesús waiting impatiently for the red light to stop the heavy traffic.  “You sold a bunch of balloons today, Joey?” asked Jesús, breaking the long silence.

“Ain’t hardly selled the first one yet.”

“You been out all day and haven’t sold any balloons?”

Joey shook his head.  “Didn’t came out till it was almost dark.  – And then I spended all the change money from yesterday for old bad wine for dinner.”

Jesús looked at Joey, puzzled.

“After dinner, I went asleep for a while in the park.” said Joey.

“For how long?”

“Till just before I sawed you.”

Jesús laughed.  “Went to sleep?  Sounds more like you passed out to me.”

They arrived at the hot dog stand.

“Didn’t passed out neither.” grumbled Joey.  “Me and Rusty worked late last’s tonight, cleaning up the church for Sunday school tomorrow morning.”

The stand was a small building at the corner of one of the big hotels, with a large sign “FRANKS” hanging above the single entrance door.  A long counter with eight stools ran the length of the room, and there was a window counter where customers could stand and eat, and look out the windows at the Courthouse, the Park, and the Boulevard.  But the windows were fogged up now where the heat of the grill had met the chilly December evening air.

“Hey, Frankie.” yelled Jesús, as soon as he and Joey were in the door.  “Give me four red hots over here, will you?  With everything.  And two cups of coffee, when you get a chance, okay?”

The fat, sweat-and-grease-stained, tee-shirted man behind the counter was startled and looked up suddenly from the foreign magazine he was reading.  There were color pictures of naked women on every page.  He recovered and nodded his head, holding up four fingers of one hand at Jesús.

Jesús nodded back at the counterman slowly, imitating his four-finger gesture and turning it into a wave.  Joey tied his balloons to a coat hook next to the payphone near the door.  The balloons nestled together in a corner of the low ceiling.  Joey unbuttoned his tight coat, and he and Jesús sat down at the counter on the first two stools nearest the door.

There was only one other customer at the stand, a boy of sixteen, who was small and thin for his age and could pass for twelve or fourteen.  An unruly mop of curly red hair struggled to get out from under his worn, red baseball cap.  He was seated on the last stool at the rear of the room.  The young man ignored everything but the hot dog and drink in front of him, which he ate slowly, concentrating on every small bite.

The counterman brought Jesús four hot dogs wrapped in white paper napkins and two cups of hot coffee.  “Thanks, Frankie.  How you been doing, man?” asked Jesús, smiling, passing two hot dogs and a cup of coffee to Joey, who began to eat immediately.  “How’s business?”

The counterman looked at Jesús carefully, as if trying to understand or remember him, then shrugged and answered.  “No good… no bus-i-ness… no make lots money.”

“Hell, Frank, money ain’t everything, is it?  You got a good little bus-i-ness here.  The best hot dogs in the New Town.  You ain’t going to go hungry, now, anyway, are you?” said Jesús, patting his own stomach.

Jesús smiled and winked at Joey, who was chewing vigorously on one hot dog and bun already completely in his mouth, and holding the other one ready in front of him.

“Hotel no like…tell peoples…work there, stay there…eat there, no come here.” said Frank, stabbing the air with his finger, pointing to each place he mentioned.  “Tell me go cross street where belong.”

“Hotel don’t want you here, I guess.” said Jesús.

“Me here first.  But no want be here no more…make lots money.  Go back home.  Live big.  Lots woman.  Lots whiskey.  Lots money.”

Jesús smiled.  “You don’t need to go back home to get lots woman, lots whiskey.” he said slowly.  “You stay here.  We got lots woman, lots whiskey for you right here.”

“No like woman here, no like whiskey.  Go back…Hey, where hell you go?” snarled Frank suddenly.

The boy at the rear of the room had left his place and, as Frank noticed him, broke into a run for the door.  Jesús leaned back on his stool and grabbed the boy by the arm, pulling him to the counter.  “Let me go.” said the child.  “I ain’t got no money.  Let me go, dammit.”

Joey turned and stared at the boy for a moment, then calmly turned back and began to eat his second hot dog.

The child struggled as Frank leaned over the counter, grabbed him by his hair, and slapped him once, knocking off his baseball cap.  Jesús caught Frank’s hand before he could strike the child a second time.  “No got no hot dog…if no got no money.” said Frank, pulling to get his hand away from Jesús, who released it.  “You stay.  Me call police.”

Frank went to the payphone near the door, fumbling in his pants pocket for a coin.  He placed his foot against the front door, holding it firmly closed, and looked back at the child.  The boy shivered, on the edge of tears.  Jesús relaxed his grip on the child’s arm and looked at him closely, thinking deeply for a moment.  “Hey, Frank, wait a minute.  Forget it.” he said.  “I’ll pay for what the kid ate.”

Quickly Frank put down the telephone, and retrieved his coin from the return slot.  “Okay.” he said.  “You pay me now.”

Jesús kept a loose grip on the boy’s arm and reached into one of the front pockets of his jeans, pulling out a handful of dollar bills intricately folded into small neat squares.  He selected one, and shoved the other bills back into his front pocket.  Jesús unfolded the dollar easily with one hand, in a much-practiced way, and handed it to the boy.  “Here, kid.  Pay the man and get out of here.” he said, releasing the boy’s arm, and leaning down to pick up the red baseball cap.

The child took the money, and barely holding a corner of the bill, gave it to Frank without looking at him.  The counterman looked at the limp, worn, many-times-folded-and-unfolded dollar bill suspiciously as he carried it to the money box in the corner of the counter.

“You did it stupid.” whispered Jesús to the boy, handing him his hat.

“What?” asked the child.

“You done a stupid thing.” said Joey.  “You done a …”

Joey stopped in the middle of repeating himself as Jesús, with an annoyed glance, handed him a third hot dog, which he began to eat immediately.  Frank brought a few coins worth of change to Jesús.  “Give it to him.” said Jesús, pointing to the boy.  “That’s one dollar you owe me, kid.  You remember that.  That’s one you owe me.”

The child, afraid, nodded.  “No come back my restaurant no more…  Never.” yelled Frank, stalking off down the counter, talking to himself in his own language, to clean up the remains of the boy’s meal.

As Frank moved away, the boy stared at him angrily.  Carefully he smoothed his hair where Frank held him, and put his baseball cap back on his head.  Again, Jesús whispered.  “You did it stupid.”

Joey continued to eat.  The boy looked at Jesús, but said nothing.

Jesús whispered.  “If you ain’t got no money or you ain’t going to pay, you sit as close to the door of the place as you can.  A side door is best.  And you wait till the guy is busy, or on the phone, or falls asleep, or goes to the bathroom, or something.  And then you get up and walk out.  Just like you would if you had paid.  You never run.”

The child stared angrily past Jesús as Frank wadded napkins and papers from the boy’s meal into a ball and, with it, raked a few crumbs from the counter to the floor.

“But you do it in a busy place.” continued Jesús.  “Not in a dump like this.  And not close to where you live or where you hang out.  You should have tried one of the hotel coffee shops.”

“I was going to…” began the boy.

Down the counter, Frank flung the ball of trash into a can and picked up the plastic glass, plunging it noisily into a sink of dirty dishes in cold dishwater, still mumbling to himself.

“Say, ain’t you the kid who used to shine shoes for all the dudes over on the Block?” asked Jesús suddenly, in a louder voice.

The boy nodded.

“How come you ain’t shining shoes no more, kid?  You used to make a lot of money.”

“Ain’t no kid.  And I ain’t going to do no kid job.  I need me a man job now.”

“I see.  You’re a man, now, is that it?” asked Jesús, continuing to speak in a loud voice.  “Well, no man would have run off without paying for what he ate.  That’s what a kid would have done.  A man would have spoken right up and said, ‘Mister Frank, I ain’t got me no money right now.  You put this here hot dog and drink on my bill, and I’ll pay you when I get me some money.’  Goddammit, you had money when you was shining shoes.  You better find some other way to make money, or else get that goddamn shoeshine box back.  Now get out of here before I really get mad with you.”

The child had listened carefully, but defiantly.  He walked to the door, opened it, and turned to speak, but said nothing.  The door banged as the child ran away down the street. 

Joey belched loudly, and quickly swallowed the last of his coffee.  “Excuse me.” he said, getting off the stool.

“Wait a minute, Joey.” said Jesús, but Joey unwrapped the strings of the balloons from the coat hook and pulled them toward the door.

Frank turned to look, but turned back to his dishes, still mumbling.

“Wait a minute, goddammit.” said Jesús, taking two quick bites of the remaining hot dog.

“I thanks you for my suppers, Mister Jesus.” said Joey, as he went out the door, carefully pulling his balloons through behind him, then allowing the door to bang shut for a second time.

Jesús finished the last hot dog in one bite, and gulped the coffee.  He wiped his mouth and moustache carefully on a napkin, as he watched Frank continue to wash dishes and mumble to himself.  Slowly then, Jesús got up from the stool and took several steps toward the door.

“Hey, you no pay me yet.” yelled Frank, turning suddenly, pulling his hands from the cold dishwater.

Jesús turned, smiling, his hand on the doorknob.  “Mister Frank.” he said.  “I ain’t got me no money right now.  You put these here hot dogs and drinks on my bill, and I’ll pay you when I get me some money.”

“What?” asked Frank.

Jesús showed the counterman his fist and slowly extended his middle finger.  “I said… stick it up your ass, Mister Frank.” he said, laughing, and walked out the door as Frank ran to the payphone, shaking cold water from his hands and fumbling in his pants pocket for a coin.

Jim Bailey dined alone, sipping slowly from his fourth large glass of wine, the last of the bottle—the most expensive on the wine list—that he had ordered with his dinner—the most expensive on the menu.  Casually he beckoned his waiter, a small white-haired old man in a short white jacket.  “Sir?” asked the old waiter, smiling, knowing the businessman wanted his check, anticipating a generous tip. 

“An excellent meal.” said Jim, handing the waiter his company credit card.  “Add twenty-five percent for yourself and the staff.”

“Very good, Sir!”

“Very good, Sir!” mocked Jim silently, smirking at the few customers near him, after the waiter had gone.

Jim continued to sip his wine until the waiter returned, then signed the bill without looking at it, his large signature overflowing the small space on the form.  “Don’t want the Boss to have to put on his reading glasses to see it.” said Jim, winking at the old waiter.

“Very good, Sir!”

Jim saluted the waiter with his half glass of wine and drank it all.  “Because starting Monday.” he explained.  “I’m the new Boss.”

“Very good, Sir!”

Jim stood suddenly, awkwardly, unsteady on his feet.  The old waiter reached out carefully to support him.  “Foot fell asleep.” said Jim, then quickly changed the subject.  “Sixteen years on the road.  Almost half my goddamn life.  Best goddamn salesman the company ever had.”

The old waiter smiled.  “Very good, Sir.” he said, more softly.

Jim put a big arm around the small waiter.  “I’m celebrating.” he whispered.  “My last road trip.  You want to come celebrate with me?  What’s your name?”

The waiter laughed.  “I’m Walter, Sir.  I’m sorry, but I have to finish my work here, Sir.  You go on without me.  – But be careful.  Don’t celebrate too hard.  You’ve got to go back to work, too, next week.”

 “Shit.” said Jim good-naturedly, straightening up now, getting his balance.  “Don’t you worry about me, Walt.  I can take care of myself.”

“Very good, Sir!” said the waiter, relaxing his light grip on Jim’s arm and elbow.  

Jim stumbled only slightly as he ambled out of the hotel dining room and walked down the short hallway to the hotel bar.  He was feeling alone.  And lonely.  He wanted to talk to someone. 

“That’s the great thing about bartenders.” he thought, choosing a seat at the front of the oval-shaped bar.  “As long as I drink, they have to talk to me.”

The bartender, a large man, over three hundred pounds, appeared to be reading a newspaper at the back of the bar when Jim entered the room, but was actually reading a well-worn Bible hidden behind the paper.  Reluctantly, the barman marked his place with a tattered bit of ribbon, folded the newspaper around the Bible, and put it away carefully under the bar.  Moving with surprising ease for a big man, in the narrow space behind the bar, the barman greeted his new customer.  “Good evening, sir.  How may I serve you?”

“Bourbon on the rocks.” said Jim.

“Yes, sir.” said the barman, turning to the bottles and glasses on the counter behind him.

Jim was surprised when he saw the bartender’s face.  His hair was white, but his face was young, like the face of a fat baby.  The skin of his face was smooth and pale, with no hint of beard or oil.  It was impossible to guess the barman’s age.  He could have been thirty-two or sixty-four.

The big bartender placed the drink in front of Jim on a small cocktail napkin.  Jim paid with cash from his wallet.

“Not much business tonight.” said Jim, accepting a few bills and change, but leaving it on the bar next to his drink.

“Not much.” said the barman, then nods his head toward a table in a dark corner farthest from the bar.  “Unless you want to count them.”

At the far table a group of eight men, all wearing identical red nylon windbreakers, with white lettering on the back—otherwise casually, some sloppily, dressed—sat laughing and talking quietly, drinking mugs of beer from three large pitchers in the center of the table.

Jim had not noticed them when he came in.  “Bowling team?” he asked.

“Firemen.” said the bartender disgustedly.  “Big firefighters convention here in town this weekend.  Firemen from all over the State.  We’ll be lucky if they don’t burn down the whole City.”

“That bad?” asked Jim, slightly amused.

“Drunken, dirty-minded fools.  – Last night a bunch of them didn’t want to leave at closing time.  So I refused to sell them any more beer.  Well, they piled all their trash in the middle of the table, and set fire to it.  Then they stood on their chairs and took out their hoses—that’s what they called them—and urinated on the fire until they put it out.  – The table’s ruined.  – Can you believe that?  Public urination?”

Jim chuckled.  “Sorry.” he said to the frowning bartender.  “It seems funny the way you tell it.”

“It’s not funny when you have to clean it up.  – And that’s not all.  Last night, one of my girls…” the barman paused, embarrassed.  “One of the waitresses, I mean… almost quit on account of one of those fools.  – And all they ever talk about is fire.”

“Only natural, I guess.” said Jim.  “Lots of men go a little crazy when they get away from home.”

“You’re not one of them, are you?” asked the bartender, pausing to study Jim more closely.  “A fireman, I mean.”

“Hell, no, I’m the…” Jim paused.  “I’m a salesman—sixteen years on the road.  Been with the same company since I was twenty-four.  Straight from college and a few years in the Navy.”

“I was in the Navy.” said the barman.  “What ship were you on?”

“You ever heard of SUE-DOUGH?” said the salesman, warming into his standard sales pitch.

“No.  Never heard of her.  What kind of ship is she?”

“Not a ship.” said Jim.  “Plastics.  Plastic products.  –  ‘A revolutionary new plastics process.’  Called Sue-Dough.  – We stole the process from one of the biggest companies in the business.  Why, I could sell you a whole line of bar products.  Plastic drink glasses.  Cheap—never break.  Coasters.  Swizzle sticks.  Everything.  Pennies apiece.  Reusable or throwaway.  – And it’s all good stuff, too.”

“You stole the process?” asked the barman.  “That’s not very ethical, is it?”

“Ethical?  Shit.  It’s just business as usual.  – That’s the real world out there, you know.”

The barman looked puzzled.  “Real world?” he asked.

“Hell, I almost never make the sale until I tell them the process is stolen.  All the drinks, dinners, jokes… all that good-time-Charlie bullshit.  It doesn’t mean anything.  It’s just …” Jim struggled for the right word, and finally said, “foreplay.  But when I tell them the process is stolen, man, that’s better than sex.  It’s like they’re getting a bargain.  – And if you want to know the truth, I don’t even remember any more if the process is really stolen or not.  It’s just something I say.”

The big bartender listened intently.  He paused a long moment before asking, “And you don’t worry about that?  That’s a pretty sad commentary on people, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is.  I don’t know.  It’s a living, I guess.  But one thing I do know is that the boss is happy.  And he never calls me a salesman.  It’s always ‘hustler’ or ‘promoter’ or ‘number one con man’.”

“Yes.” said the barman.  “But people should do right, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” said Jim, a little uncomfortably.  “Say, get me another drink, will you?”

The bartender shrugged.  He picked up Jim’s glass and studied it.  It was a shiny heavy-bottomed, real-glass container. Quickly the barman turned his back and prepared another drink in a new glass.  Turning back to Jim, he placed it in front of him on a new napkin, picking up the old one and discarding it behind the bar.  “Will that be all, Sir?” asked the barman.

Jim pushed money at the bartender from his change on the bar.  “Say, that’s some goddamn football team you’ve got here in this town.” said Jim.  “You think they’re going to win tomorrow?”

Across from the Courthouse, a young soldier in uniform sat patiently on the Boulevard bus stop bench, his heavy overcoat folded neatly over his arm, watching the sky grow dark.  A battered, brown station wagon, with darker brown spots of dirt and rust and age, carrying a full luggage rack covered by an old brown tarp, chugged past the soldier in heavy traffic and turned into the hotel parking lot behind the bus stop, pulling into a space near the bench, which was lit up by the brightness of the Boulevard street lights.  A middle-aged man, pulling on a greasy coat as he got out of the driver’s door, went to the front of the station wagon and lifted the hood.  Snapping on a flashlight from his coat pocket, he searched for a moment over the machine’s struggling engine and interior parts.  In despair, he shook his head and cursed, almost crying.  “Dammit.  – Goddammit.”

The young soldier turned to sit sideways on the bench and looked back at the station wagon man, who twisted suddenly on his heel and drew back a leg as if to kick the vehicle, but did not.  Instead, he saw the soldier and started walking toward the bus stop bench.  The soldier turned back quickly to face the Boulevard.  “Sir?  Excuse me?  Sergeant?” said the station wagon man.  “Do you know anything about cars?”

The soldier turned meekly.  “Me?”

“My engine’s acting awful funny over here.”

“No, sir, I never had a car.”

“Would you mind having a look anyway?  Maybe you can see something I can’t.  Or you could hold the flashlight for me.  Won’t you help me?  Please?”

“My bus is coming in a few minutes.” said the soldier, searching the Boulevard quickly for any sign of a bus, seeing only cars.  “But I’ll help you till it gets here.”

The soldier, carrying his overcoat on his arm, followed the man to the station wagon.  “I’m just trying to get my family home to my wife’s folks for Christmas.” said the man over his shoulder.  “Had me a real good construction job up north, but got laid off for the winter.  And right at Christmas time, too.  I just want to get my family to somebody who can take care of them till I get me another job.”

  As the two men reached the station wagon, the car’s engine rumbled and sputtered and died.  “Dammit.” said the man, switching on the flashlight again and pointing it at the engine accusingly. “What do you think, Sergeant?  Spark plugs?  Carburetor?  Distributor?  Battery?”

After a silence, the soldier stammered.  “I don’t know.  — Maybe the spark plugs?  Maybe the carburetor?”

“I think maybe you’re right.” said the station wagon man slowly.  “Here.  Hold the flashlight on the carburetor for me.  – Just shine it right here on my hands.”

The soldier did as he was told, and the man leaned under the hood and felt around the carburetor with both hands.  “I think you were right, Sergeant.” said the man.  “There’s a loose screw here.  I can, maybe, tighten it a little bit with my fingers.”

The man finished and stepped back, taking the flashlight from the soldier and putting it back in the pocket of his coat.  “Hey, Mom, start it up again, will you?” he yelled through the windshield to a large woman, who slid over under the steering wheel.

The engine started sluggishly, but after a moment began to smooth out and run properly.  “Sarge, we did it, by damn.  You were right.” said the man gleefully, slamming down the hood.  “It was the carburetor.  Put her there, son.”

The soldier smiled as the station wagon man pumped his hand in a friendly shake.  “Come and meet the family.” said the man, hanging on to the soldier’s hand and leading him around to the second passenger door on the opposite side from the driver.  “Here, get in the car where it’s warm.  Right here behind Mom.”

The middle-aged man slammed the door behind the soldier and ran around to get in at the driver’s door, taking off his oil-stained coat.  The passengers in the station wagon—the large forty-year-old wife, a skinny dark-haired teenage daughter, and two blonde crew-cut, tee-shirted younger sons in the third seat—stared in silence at the soldier.  The inside of the station wagon was warm, and littered with coats and clothes, empty cans and bottles, old magazines and comic books, and many small wrappers and boxes and cartons.  There was a strong odor of people living close together for a long time.  “Like the barracks on Sunday.” thought the soldier.

“Family, this is Sergeant…” began the station wagon man.

“Not Sergeant.  I’m just a PFC—Private First Class.” said the soldier.  “Only been in six months.  I’m just twenty-four….  – Just call me Jack.  It’s easier.”

“Well, smart enough to be a Sergeant anyway.” said the man.  “You fixed our car for us, now, didn’t you, Jack?”

The man began his introductions again.  “Jack, this is my wife.  Everybody just calls her Mom.  And this good-looker sitting next to you, that’s my daughter, Sissy.”

The girl, wearing a red sweater hung loosely over her shoulders, sits against the passenger door behind the driver, her legs tucked up on the seat beside her, her skirt hem up over her knees.  She turned away shyly—or perhaps in embarrassment—and looked out the window.

“Now, Pop, don’t be teasing the young people.” said Mom, tapping him lightly, playfully, on the shoulder.

“And those two big boys behind you are Buddy and Skipper.  Or Bud and Skip, as we say it.” said Pop.

“Nice to meet you all.” said Jack politely.

“You sure done us a big favor, Jack.” said Mom, smiling back at him over the front seat.  “The least we can do is take you wherever it is you’re going.” 

“No, ma’am, that’s not necessary.  My bus will be here any minute.  And anyway, I’m just going back to the fort.”

“Jack, you make me feel ungrateful to you.” said Pop.  “Of course, we’ll take you back to camp.  It’s the least we can do for you helping us.  And besides, I think we passed a broke-down bus about a mile back, didn’t we, Mom?”

“Now you say it, yes, we did.” said Mom.  “About a mile back.”

“That was probably your bus.” Pop added.

“Really.” said Jack, looking down at the girl’s bare knees.  “Well, maybe.  But I don’t want to take you folks out of your way.  And there’ll be another bus soon.  I’m not really in a big hurry to get back anyway.”

“Pop, I’m hungry.” said one of the blonde boys.

“Me, too, Pop.” said the other one.

“You two boys hush up now.” said Mom quickly.

“I got a idea, Jack.” said Pop suddenly.  “You ain’t in no hurry.  And we’re almost home, so we ain’t in no hurry.  Why don’t we all go somewhere and have supper?  And after that we’ll take you back to camp or back here or wherever you want to go.  Then we’ll probably check into a motel and get a early start in the morning.  We’ll get there tomorrow.  – Come on, Jack, what do you say?  It’s the least we can do after you helping us out and all.”

“Well, I don’t know…” began Jack.

“Jack, I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer.” said Mom.

Pop put the station wagon in gear and moved smoothly out of the parking lot and back into the flow of Boulevard traffic.  “Well, all right, I guess so.” said Jack, releasing the door handle he has held since entering the vehicle.

“Sissy.” said Mom sharply.  “Don’t be hugging the door like that.  I know you don’t get to see many pretty men, but you got to learn not to be afraid of them.”

Sissy moved away from the door a little, sliding slightly toward the center of the seat, exposing more of her legs, still looking out the window.  “She’s only sixteen.” said Mom to Jack.  “So young.  And so afraid of the boys.”

“Yes, ma’am.” said Jack, laying his bulky overcoat on the seat beside him, between him and Sissy, and easing away from the door on his side of the car until he no longer touches it. 

There was still a wide empty space between the soldier and the girl—enough room for another person—the only empty space anywhere in the littered station wagon.  “Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, Sissy.” said Pop.  “Boys are the same as girls mostly.  Ain’t that right, Jack?”

Mom and Pop chuckled together.

“Well, mostly.” said Mom.

They chuckled again.  Jack, embarrassed, looked over at the girl, who had stopped looking out the window and was staring angrily at the two people in the front seat.

The station wagon stopped at a red light near a railroad crossing, and turned into a dark, narrow street with the Courthouse on one side and small houses and small stores lining the cracked sidewalk on the other side.  Mom looked back over the front seat.  “Now quit your teasing, Pop.  If these two young people wants to get together, there ain’t nothing we can do about it.  That’s the way it was with us, now, anyway, wasn’t it?” she said, slapping his arm again, playfully, lightly with her hand.

Mom and Pop laughed together again.  Nervously, Jack turned his head to look at the two boys in the third seat.  They sat rigidly, unnaturally still, with their backs pressed against their seat and their feet pushing against the cushion which is the back of his seat.  They returned his gaze, smiling, watching him closely.  Then, first one, then the other, yawned, and they leaned toward each other, shoulders touching, and closed their eyes to sleep.

“Here it is.  This is the place.” said Pop, pulling the station wagon into the alley which ran down behind a small supermarket.  “Jack, you help me do the shopping.  Mom, you and the kids clean up the car a little.  Ain’t hardly fit to eat in.”

Pop stopped the station wagon and got out.  It was parked deep in the alley near the rear of the building.  He motioned for Jack to follow him, then hugged himself, shivering in his thin shirt in the chilly evening air.  He led Jack around to the front of the supermarket, which although dimly lit, was still open.  Inside, Pop picked out a shopping cart and rolled it at Jack, handle first, for him to push.  The store was almost empty.  “We close in fifteen minutes.” said a sleepy stock boy, mopping the floor around the only register and counter in the store.

Pop ignored the stock boy.  “What you want to eat?” he asked Jack.

“Anything.  Whatever everybody else likes.”

Pop shrugged.  “I thought you soldier boys went crazy on Saturday night, got drunk and chased women?”

“Some do.” said Jack.

Pop laughed.  “I always did when I was in.”

Pop walked carefully through the store, up and down each short, sloppily-stacked, overstocked aisle, looking at every shelf and into every case, and behind the frosty glass of every refrigerator door.  As he walked, he picked up first one item, then another, and weighed them in his hand, looking at them fiercely.  Some things he dropped in the cart, but most he put back on the shelf in place of the next item he picked up.  Pop selected two loaves of bread, three large bags of potato chips, a jumbo package of bologna, and many different small bags and packages of assorted candy, cookies, and crackers.  Pop and Jack passed a wall of refrigerator doors, the beverage section of the store.   “You want milk or soda for the kids?” asked Jack.

Pop picked up a case of beer.  “No.” he said.  “They don’t like it.”

Near the register, Pop stopped at a magazine rack.  He selected two comic books and a teen magazine.  “Sissy loves this one.  I’m going to get it and tell her you bought it for her.  That’ll make it more special.”

“No need to do that.” said Jack.  “Anyway, I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“That’s just the way women act.  Playing “hard to get” they call it.  But they don’t mean it.  Of course, she likes you.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“And when a woman likes you—that’s all there is to it—you know what I mean.” said Pop, smiling and winking at Jack.

Pop put the groceries up on the counter near the register.  The sleepy stock boy, apparently alone, came over, yawned, and smiled.  “How you all doing tonight?” he asked.

Pop ignored the question.  Jack looked at Pop, then looked at the stock boy, and mumbled softly, “All right, I guess.”

The stock boy totaled the prices of the groceries as he put them into two paper bags.  Absentmindedly, Pop stroked the stubble of his beard with one hand and searched his pockets with the other.  Dramatically, the stock boy punched the button that rang up the final total.  “Damn.” said Pop suddenly.  “My coat.  I left my wallet in my coat out in the car.”

Jack looked at Pop, but said nothing.

“Got to go all the way back out there in this fucking cold just to get my goddamn coat.  And then turn around and come all the way back in here.  Goddammit.  – I’ll only be a couple of minutes, buddy.  You wait here, Jack.  No use both of us being cold.”

Pop started for the door, but stopped and came back.  “Say, Jack, could you save me a trip?” he asked.  “I hate the fucking cold worse than anything.  I’ll pay you back just as soon as we get out to the car.”

Jack hesitated.  “Well, I don’t know…” he began.

“All right, I’ll go get my goddamn coat then, goddammit.” said Pop, muttering to himself, on the way to the door again.

“I’ll get your coat for you.” offered Jack.

“No.” snapped Pop.

“Hey, how long is all this going to take?” asked the stock boy, looking at his watch.

“Goddammit.  I told you…” began Pop, coming back angrily, looking as if he might strike the stock boy.

“Wait a minute.” said Jack.  “I’ll pay, but I want my money back as soon as we get back out to the car.

“No problem.” said Pop, with a huge grin.  “I really appreciate it, Jack.  I hate the fucking cold worse than anything.”

Jack reached into the inside pocket of his uniform coat and pulled out his wallet.  He found several bills and gave them to the stock boy.  The boy made change quickly and started to hand it back to Jack, but Pop reached over and took the change.  “I just got big bills out in the car, Jack.” said Pop.  “Let me have the change, and I’ll give you big bills.  It’ll be easier than you making change all over again.”

Jack stared at Pop in protest.  But Pop pocketed the change, and picked up one bag and the case of beer.  “Get the other bag, will you, Jack.” he said, heading for the door.

“You folks come again.” said the stock boy automatically, pulling the cash drawer from the register and putting it quickly into an open safe under the counter.  He slammed the heavy metal safe door, twirled the dial once, and reached for his coat.

The stock boy clicked off four light switches, and suddenly the store was totally dark.  He followed Pop and Jack through the front door, locking it behind him.  “Good night.” he said to no one in particular, and suddenly more alert, walked briskly away down the street.          

Jack followed Pop around the corner into the alley, and they carried the groceries to the station wagon.  They got back into the car, which had not been cleaned in their absence.  Instantly, there was an uproar.  In unison, the two boys screamed, “What’s for supper, Pop?”

“You boys shut up before I come back there and smack you.” snapped Mom.  “Jack, I can’t reach them boys, but if they don’t sit quiet and behave, I want you to turn around and smack them for me.”

Mom took Jack’s bag into the front seat, and quickly began to distribute its contents.  “Here, boys, take these potato chips.  Sissy, you open this bag for you and Jack.” 

The boys in the third seat tore into their bag eagerly.  Sissy opened the other bag carefully, smiling in a funny, forced way, almost a grimace, looking at Jack, who does not return her stare.  One of Sissy’s cheeks was redder than it was when Pop and Jack went into the store.  And there was a small spot of blood at the corner of her mouth. 

“Mister?  — I mean, Pop?  —” began Jack.

Pop had opened several cans of beer, and took a long drink emptying one can.  “Just a minute, son.  I know what you want.  Sissy, pass this beer back to Bud and Skip.  And here’s one for you and one for Jack.  Here’s yours, Mom.”

Mom began passing sandwiches.  “Pass these here baloney sandwiches back.” she demanded.  “And here’s yours…and yours.  Now everybody hush so we can eat in peace.  I got a real splitter of a headache.”

“Mister?” said Jack again softly.

“Mom’s got a headache, Jack.  Can’t it wait ‘til later?”

“Yes, sir.”

 Everyone ate.  The boys in the back seat ate eagerly, sharing the can of beer between them.  Sissy ate thoughtfully, continuing to smile at Jack, although she chewed her food on only one side of her mouth.  Jack ate silently, thinking of other things.  Mom ate slowly.  Pop drank beer for several minutes, one can after another, and then began to eat his sandwich.  Sandwiches and crackers were passed from the front to the back of the car, and after a while, cookies and candy were also passed back.  At once, Pop produced the comic books and teen magazine.  “You kids have Jack to thank for these.” he said.  “He bought them for you with his own money.”

“That was nice of you.” said Mom, prompting Sissy with a look.

“Thank you, Jack.” said Sissy, a bit too sweetly.

Jack looked at them, but did not respond.  There was a long silence.

“How’s your headache, Mom?” said Pop finally.

“Better.” said Mom, smiling at him.  “I was hungry, I guess.”

Mom and Pop toasted each other with cans of beer.

“Mister, can I talk to you for a minute, please?” said Jack.  “Outside.”

“Sure, son.  You’re the boss.  Whatever you say.” said Pop, drunkenly, getting out of the wagon, carrying a can of beer with him.

“Bring your coat, please…so you won’t be cold.”

“Don’t worry about me, son.  I’m all full up with antifreeze.”

Outside, the two men walked around to the back of the car.  “May I have my money back now, please?” said Jack.

“You get enough to eat?” asked Pop, smiling oddly.  “And something to drink.  – And a peek up Sissy’s dress, I saw you do that.  Not that I blame you now.  There’s a lot to see up there.  So you had food and a drink, and a free show.  What more could you ask for?  A little tit, maybe?”

Jack moved toward the drunken man slowly and reached out to grab Pop’s shirtsleeve in a tight fist.  He pulled his other fist back ready to hit Pop in the face.

“Hold on, son.  Don’t do something you’ll be sorry for.  – I wish I could give it to you.  I wish I could give you your money.  But the truth is, I ain’t got it.”

“What?” yelled Jack.

“Sorry.”

“But you said…”

“Hey, listen.  I got an idea.” said Pop drunkenly.  “We’ll make a deal with you.  We’ll make you a trade.  You like Sissy, don’t you?”

“Need me a man job.

Should have run the other way.

Ain’t no kid.  She let me.

And then he gave me a dollar.  Owe that Jesus man a dollar.

Cruddy Park.  Why’d they tear all the houses down?

‘That’s one dollar you owe me, kid.  That’s one you owe me.’  Everybody all the time calling me kid.  Ain’t no kid.

She didn’t call me kid.  And she took my money same as anybody.  And she was pretty and she let me.  She showed me.

Ain’t no kid no more.  She let me.

Can’t let her see me shining shoes.

‘Shine, sir?’

‘Please, sir, shine?’

‘Shine ‘em up for you, sir?’

‘Thanks, boy!’

‘Good job, kid!’

‘Here you go, young fellow, catch!’

‘Thank you, sir!’

‘Thank you, sir!’

‘Thank you, sir!’

Cruddy, muddy goddamn Park.

Never shined his shoes, but he knew me.  He must have wore tennis shoes.  Owe that Jesus man a dollar.

Should have run the other way.  Side door.

Wears boots now.  Nice boots.  Hard to shine.  Too much polish.

Couldn’t look at nobody’s face.  Everybody had eyes.  Had to look at shoes.

Greaseball hit me.  Gonna hit him back ten times.  No.  Twenty times. 

Got to get some money.  Got to pay that Jesus man a dollar.

Hot dog weren’t no good anyway.  Tasted bad.  Tasted like shit.

And she had white skin.  And tits.  And she took off her clothes. 

And she had white skin and tits.  And she took my money.

Same as anybody.  Ain’t no kid.

She took my money same as anybody.

Going to hit that Greaseball twenty times.  No, eighty times.  Going to kill that Greaseball son-of-a-bitch.  Steal his money.  Steal his everything.

But he’s got a gun.  Seen it.  He showed it to a kid that one time.

And she said, ‘Touch me.  Here.  Touch me here.”

Touched her.

All over touched her.

And she took off my pants.

And she touched me.

All over touched me.

Ain’t no kid.

She touched me.”