Smooth
Eddie played short. He had what the scouts called the quick twitch. It made him a natural. He could pick anything behind the bag, go deep in the hole, jump turn and throw mid-air to first, in a freakin’ blur. On a pop fly, he’d go out hard, back to the infield, make the grab over the shoulder–no problem.
Half Pant Final
He was 7 feet tall, wearing yellow flowered shorts that stopped an inch above his deeply scarred right knee. Muscular calves supported long legs that ended in crooked toes sprouting from lime green sandals. The image of a blues man wailing on his Stratocaster was silk-screened in silver on his black tee shirt. “Buddy Guy” in script identified the artist.
People Gotta Eat
“I bought a store.”
His father stopped mid-scoop, spaghetti and neck bone dripping with sauce dangling only a few inches from his bristly chin. “A what?” Sounding as if the neck bone of the pig slaughtered for the family was now lodged deep in his throat.
Sixty Bucks a Week
The phone on the wall rang. The long, knotted cord dragged on the floor as she listened carefully to the distant voice. He had collapsed. She stared out the window where he’d usually park, the space empty. It was 95°, but it wasn’t the heat. Not a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure.
He Served
The guy had a silver chain that dangled from his left front pocket to his right, perfectly outlining his brief-less testicles. He looked at The Buff, smiled, and yanked out a pocket watch the size of a hockey puck from his faded Levis and said, “ten… p.m., fat boy.” His droopy white walrus mustache did a lousy job of concealing his shit-eating grin.
A Troubling Hare
I have a lot of problems. Let me restate that. A lot of problems have me. Having a problem is an illusion. It implies I have control over that problem. I don’t. The problem has control over me.
Lewis and Fredo
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.
