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“What am I supposed to do, Skipper” I say, and even
though the sun is blasting, my hands shiver like it’s Christmas
eve. “Next year I’m out of a job and with Grace the way she is
I need the money. It’s that or she’ll leave me, Skip, she said she
would. Hell, she’ll probably leave me anyway. But if I keep it, if I
keep this damn ring, the Kid will be after me for a piece of it. And
if I give it back to Swansons, he and his grease-ball uncle will get
me for sure, orphan my poor kid before it even sees its first light.
What do I do, uh Skip What the hell do I do”
“Relax, Buff. I’ll talk to the Kid,” he says and gives my
shoulders a little shake.
“What would you do, Skip” I look up at him. “What
would you do in my spot”
He looks at me and half-smiles. “Don’t think about that.
Just do what it is you do. Because things, they don’t change none.
And whatever you do, tomorrow the world be same as it is today.
Them hostages in the paper still be hostages. Rich folks still be
rich. The Kid be the Kid. And you, you’ll be alright.”
I want to tell him something but Park Avenue traffic
drowns my thoughts.
“Thanks, Skip,” I say instead and put the ring in my pocket.
“The hell with him and his ducks.”
He smiles and I know he means it.
“Go on,” he says, struggling up the steps to the cabin and
plopping down behind the wheel. “The Kid and I will cover the
rest of the stretch.”
The engine groans, coughs up smoke from the tailpipe,
and I watch them merge with the honking flow.
I walk the rest of the way alone, past the endless storefront
glass of Park Avenue madness. Godiva chocolates with ribbons
and bows, music boxes and porcelain dogs, chandeliers and
paintings and candles and rugs—all neatly arranged as if by some
kid who finally tidied up his toys after playing. Each thing tries to
one-up another, but instead they mingle and match, itching my
bad eye with colorful sameness. Just a bunch of pretty things that
do nothing, my old man would say and keep walking.
26 Writing Tomorrow Magazine