Lewis and Fredo
by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers
Dirty snow whipped across 63rd street. I had to squint to make out the figure dodging cars in the middle of the clogged intersection. He stomped his feet like an unsure contestant trying to remember the dance move that would get him to the finals. Tan boots, faded jeans, a green camo jacket, ear-buds tucked under a red hoodie, and black gloves missing fingers. Newspapers firmly tucked under his left arm. Most likely the Times, around here that’s all there was.
The outside temp on my Nissan dash read -3˚. What was he doing out there? What was I doing here?
I slowed to a snail’s pace, dialed down the Mikes; one a Northwestern journalism grad and the other a jug head retired NFL lineman from Notre Dame, and studied the dancing paper man. Huge in size, graceful in movement, he pointed, he feinted, jabbed, and rolled; keeping time to most likely “Marvin” or “Tammy.” I inched forward. Snow crunched under my tires, and Chicago’s angry bluster shookmy Nissan like it was trying to slap sense into my stubborn vehicle.
My windshield became a blurred movie screen, as the dancer choreographed his moves. A violent stomp, an arm slap to his chest, and a hands-to-the-face steamy blow were part of his routine. Slush smeared my windshield, then froze, the wipers slopping it away, the chunky frozen mess dribbling down the side of my car. I leaned forward, my interest growing, safe from the elements, my Japanese security blanket protecting me from an assured case of frost bite.
In front of me a beat up Focus slid to a slow motion sideways stop; its front- end twisted cock-eyed fashion, not able to track evenly on the snow covered street lines.
No mercy handed out from Mother Nature today.
The hooded impresario slid gracefully toward the Focus, immune to the ravages of the storm. An unseen figure cranked down the window in the Ford. No body in the driver seat was visible through the car’s frosty rear. A rhinestone gloved hand shot through the opening, a dollar bill flapping in the frigid wind. My dancer snatched it from her like a pit bull locking onto a bloody steak. He shoved the buck into his pocket, slid the Times into the Focus, smiled, nodded, and stomped away to the beat of his silent song.
I nudged forward, wheels spinning, all wheel drive giving me little consolation. It was nasty, plain-ass nasty. I skidded to a stop. He altered his moves, did a quick turn, then a glide, happily waving to all who trudged through the intersection. A wide smile shown from under his bright red hood displaying brilliant white teeth.
He sashayed towards me; hooded head keeping time to the beat of whoever inspired his early morning performance.
He leaned in, my wipers intermittently splitting his face in half. His voice sucked up by the weather. “You’re…n…”
“What?” I screamed though my closed window.
His smile grew broader, perfectly defined by a manicured goatee. He smacked mywindow with a ringed finger. Its ping off the glass made me jump. He motioned with his hand making circles into the frigid white-out air.
“What!” I yelled again raising my voice an octave.
Pursing his lips, he gestured one more time, the circles more compact and rapid.
I got it. It was now my move. Should I succumb to his demand? It was a dark, wind whipped subzero ominous god-forsaken Chicago blizzard. It was 63rd and Halsted. It was here, not there. Not where I’d come from. Not my safe place. My conscience started in on me, not happy with the debate brewing in my head. That debate pissed me off. I used logic, reason, to tell myself there was nothing to be ashamed of. Would this debate rage if I were in my safe place? I fought off that frightened rationalization, took a slow cautious breath, and pressed the downbutton; my window made a grudging descent. Clumps of black slush slopped into my car. Dirty chunks began to melt on my pant leg. An ice pick chill stabbed my twitching skin.
He yanked out a bud. It was “Marvin.” Who didn’t know “what was going on”?
What was next? It was his move. His corner.
“You’re new!” His deep voice boomed over the howling wind. “And nobody comes through without me seeing ‘em.”
He drum-rolled his chest, sounding proud, looking proud. This spot was his. He shoved an immense mitt through my window and moved closer, inches from my face, “Lewis.”
I was paralyzed for a moment, then embarrassed. And ashamed. Would I hesitate from a hand of another, not like him? He stared at me waiting, breath streaming steam into my car. My brain refused to get in touch with my hand. His fingerless glove dangled waiting for a response.
Who was I? What kind of man was I? My old man would say somebody should knock some sense into me.
“Shit, sorry, Fredo.” I took his hand trying to conceal my judgment. I felt in my door pocket for the sanitizer. Yeah, judgment. The stuff that you say to yourself that you wouldn’t admit to anybody else.
“Damn! Like in the movie?” His laughter made his body shake. “Fredo!”
I was furious with myself while at the same time not ready to treat him as an equal. I thought Selling papers? C’mon. What’s his shtick? Who’s he trying to con? What’s he want from me?
“Yo! Mr. Maxima. Like the movie?” His voice filled my car.
I was not proud of being the man I worked so hard at trying not to be. “Yeah,” I said softly, feeling like a rat, “Like the movie.”
He stood motionless, void of his dance moves, un-tucked a paper from beneath his arm and flung it onto my passenger seat. Instinctively I dug into my wallet.
He waved off my attempt to pay him. “Fredo, movie man. Paper’s on the house, my house, Welcome to 63rd Street.”
Turning to walk away he stopped abruptly, looked over his shoulder and leaned into the wind, his watery eyes meeting mine. “I’m here every morning.” His voice barely carrying against the howling storm.
He crossed in front of me, and I wondered who, what, how, arms flapping, dance moves rhythmic. It was cold, nasty cold.
Lewis danced; he danced in a fucking blizzard on his corner at 63rd and Halsted. And warm in my security blanket, I wrestled with my guilt ridden, arrogant voice that wouldn’t shut up.