decision by ten,” he snaps, his eyes loving, stern, a father telling his son to man up.
“Okay.”
“Talk to you later,” he says, standing. He disappears from the screen. Mai reappears. I hear the door close.
I raise my eyebrows. “He’s such a funster.”
“I do not know your word, Sam, but so many times he is right.”
“When was the last time he was wrong?”
“He did not think you and I were a good idea,” she says.
I laugh. “I remember. Gave us a hard time didn’t he? And he was wrong.”
She smiles, which nearly burns up my screen. “Yes, he was. And he has admitted it to me.”
“Really?” I say, feeling like a lovesick teenager learning his girlfriend’s father approves.
Mai smiles. “Cool, huh?”
Chien looks up at her on the screen and at me. She meows and settles her head back next to the mouse.
“Definitely,” I say grinning. Next, we’ll be talking about our big math test on Friday and which brand of acne cream is best.
“But, Sam, all he said to you just now?”
“Yes?”
“For what it is worth, whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
I nod, and stroke the top of Chien’s head.
* * *
I’m leaning on my bedroom windowsill looking out at the night. Over the four years I’ve owned this house, I’ve made all my big decisions right here: where to bury my mother; whether I should take the test to become a detective; whether to refinance my school; whether to go through with my promise to Mai and go to Saigon. Then there was the crazy time I decided I would never ever step foot out of this house again. I’d convinced myself if I did I would most assuredly kill again. Not all my decisions have been good ones.
Maybe it’s because it’s a bedroom window, a place where I’m tired, groggy, and vulnerable in my underwear. Or maybe it’s my reflection in the glass looking back and compelling me to decide. With me looking back at me waiting for me to make up my mind, I feel the need to please the face in the glass.
Should be in a country western song. Oh, my wife left me, and took my pickup and my dog. Now I got to please the sad man in the mirror and decide what I want to fight for: my truck or my dog? Needs work but, hey, it’s not too bad.
I turn my head to the left and my reflection turns to its right. I turn to my right and my reflection turns to its left. Man, would I crap a brick if my reflection turned in the opposite direction. Okay, I’d better decide before the face looking back at me drives me over the edge of what little sanity I’m using to navigate.
Thinking … thinking … Done.
And it’s only nine fifty-five.
CHAPTER THREE
Louise pulled her hood tighter around her face so only her patched eye, her good eye, and her nose peeked out. She pressed herself back against the old brick building at Third and Couch in a feeble attempt to stay warm on this unusually crisp June morning.
Since the police cars and ambulance had left a couple of hours earlier—there had been a stabbing on the corner—she had been standing with her back to the wall watching the traffic volume change from sporadic to heavy. Seven blocks to the north, commuters exited off the Steel Bridge onto Third and, though the three-lane, one-way street had a speed limit of 25 MPH, nearly every motorist went at least 35 to get through skid row and on to the chrome and glass high-rise district on the south side of Burnside. Only the old timers still called it “skid row.” The modernettes, as she called them, called it “Old Town,” as more and more art galleries and unique eateries occupied the former flophouses and ass kickin’ taverns.
Ocnod’s death had shocked Louise, not because he had died but by the way he died. Death happened almost daily on skid row’s streets, and as a long time resident, she had seen a lot of it. Many of her friends had frozen to death or died of tuberculosis, but lots of others had died at the hands of another down-and-outer. Clara’s death was from a two-by-four smashed across her forehead; Wade and Johnny got it from knives; Ol’ Ed got himself pushed out the 6th-floor window of the Free Clinic; and Big Danny got himself shot to death. She witnessed that one. No, death wasn’t anything new to her, but ol’ Ocnod’s death was horrifying. Hung from a lamppost. She shook her head and tucked her gloved hands into her armpits.
Her eye watched a shiny black BMW pull to the curb. She frowned as the 30-something retrieved an electric razor from a leather attaché case and began moving it about his face.
“Hey, asshole!” she called out, rapping her gloved knuckles against his window. “Get the hell outta here! This ain’t no goddamn bathroom. This is my house you’re in.”
The man stared stupidly for a moment at the hooded personification of ugly death—broken teeth, sprouts of whiskers growing out of moles, and a patched eye. He tossed his shaver quickly into his briefcase, its blades still whirring, and goosed the car into heavy traffic, nearly clipping a passing Volvo.
“Way to go, Louise baby,” a gruff voice called from behind her. “You told Mister Pussy what it is.”
She turned and snapped a military salute at two winos huddled in a doorway a few feet away. The tall one was Abbot and the short, fat one, Costello. They stood side by side, shoulders hunched against the morning cool, trading swigs from a brown paper bag.
Louise resumed her position against the wall and sucked hard on the last of her cigarette. A few street people passed, some nodding a greeting at her. Some new faces lately, she thought. She alerted on an old black wino across the street, a longtime skid row regular everyone called The Mayor. It was hard to see him with all the cars and trucks stopped at the light, but as usual, he was drunk out of his mind long before most people had their morning coffee. His tattered, brown overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing blue sweat pants, brown slippers, and a bare, bony chest. Hanging onto the signpost with one hand, he leaned into the street and waved his other at a pretty, young brunette in a red Honda.
The traffic signal changed to green for southbound traffic, and the pedestrian signals flashed Don’t Walk for the east/west foot traffic. Oblivious to the signals, The Mayor let go of the post and staggered into the street, heading west toward Louise’s side.
Abbot and Costello, who had also been watching The Mayor, shuffled from their doorway post and shouted at him to get back to the sidewalk. Louise tried to shout but realized her voice was too feeble to be heard over the passing traffic. She shambled over and grabbed Abbott’s arm. “He’s gonna get his ass kilt,” she cried into his ear.
“Well, I sure ain’t goin’ out there to rescue his drunkness, Louise,” Abbott said, taking a quick pull of wine from the bag.
The Mayor somehow made it across the first lane, accompanied by a cacophony of blaring horns and screeching tires. Louise, Abbott, and Costello moved to the curb’s edge, the three of them gesturing madly for him not to move as he precariously straddled the yellow line. Louise mouthed silently, “Stay, stay, stay.”
Because
