cash. I don’t know how he’s getting it, but now we have more than just a jar of peanut butter in the fridge. He says he finds metal everywhere and the boss gives him money for it.
“Where do you find this metal?” I ask him.
“Everywhere, shit, there’s metal all over the place. If people only knew.”
“What kind of metal?”
“Like, tire rims, old roofs, window frames, aluminum siding, metal metal, anything. Then I take it to the scrap yard and Mikey gives me cash for however much it weighs.”
“He goes by weight? Like gold?” I say.
“Yes, like gold,” he says in a mocking voice and a sour face. “Now will you get me a beer?”
There are long weeks when we have no money again. “It’s because there’s no metal anywhere; they must’ve caught on, those fuckin’ bums,” he says, staring off into the distance . . . well, not so much into the distance since our living room is pretty tiny. I think the beer in his callused palm is a Pabst.
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