They’d hand over an envelope, and I’d walk to the next one. I’d finish it in about an hour. Lil Pat would cruise the neighborhood around then and check in on me once in a while. He’d slowly ease past with a grin, and I’d give a nod if everything was fine and all the envelopes had been handed over. If not, I’d shake my head and he’d stop to chat. He’d keep track and go back and talk with the shop manager himself. I’d finish right by Hollywood. He’d pull up, I’d jump in and hand over the envelopes, and he’d give me twenty bucks. It was like a second allowance, and it kept me stocked up on comic books, baseball cards, and candy. I loved it. A few months after I’d started collecting, I began to figure out what was happening.
My walk shadowed the walk we did with Da. We’d walk south down Ashland to Foster and turn left past the funeral home where Da’s wake would be held and I’d crack jokes in a side room with my cousin J, then cry uncontrollably as the priest said the final words.
Then, we’d turn north down Clark. Da’s Cocker Spaniel, Sheba, led the way, cutting through the busy mass of old ladies with the little bells jingling on her collar. It was busy as ever on Clark. I passed the crazy Middle Eastern shops with neon-green statues of Buddha glowing in the windows, as well as other strange knick knacks and herbs and candles. I stepped into the ice cream shop where I used to order a Green River Float every time with Da, and my sisters would tease me and try to trick me into ordering something else. The old man in the white smock behind the counter looked down at me, sad, and handed me the envelope. He must have missed Da, too. Da wasn’t the same since he got cancer—he was sad and cried a lot. Even then, I kept hope that he could beat the cancer and that he’d be back making his walk like nothing ever happened in no time flat.
I walked to Almo’s Shoes, where Almo himself would blow up a balloon for any kid who entered the store, whether his parents were buying or browsing. I didn’t get balloons anymore, just the envelopes and the same sad face.
“How is your grandfather?” Almo asked as he placed his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s OK,” I said. “He’s doing real good.” I thought that if I said it enough it could turn true. It wasn’t true though; he got sicker every day.
I knew the people on the walk worried about Da because he was a good man. They couldn’t have really known half of it though—I didn’t even know then. When Lil Pat was young, Dad used to beat him a lot. Dad was just an angry, confused teenager. When it was bad, and Dad wouldn’t stop beating him, and they thought he might put my brother in the hospital again, Da would throw himself on top of Lil Pat and take the beating for him. He was a non-violent man. When people were hurt, it made him sad. All of that just oozed out of everything he did with us kids, and it made it easy to love him a whole lot.
I closed my eyes as I walked, and I could hear Sheba’s bells ringing faintly. Then, I could feel Da walking beside me in his patient gait. I remembered how we used to hold hands sometimes, and I reached out beside me. I walked square into something heavy and opened my eyes to see an old lady with a curly wig frowning at me. She swore in Swedish and brushed past.
“Sorry,” I said, and kept going. I liked to collect the envelopes from the shops that Da never stopped in because I knew they wouldn’t ask about him and it was easier. Sometimes, I even had to run around the corner into the alley and cry by a dumpster until I got mad. When I got mad on the walks, I’d start to steal stuff, and I wouldn’t feel bad about it, and then I wouldn’t be sad anymore.
I finished my walk and stood at the corner of Hollywood and Clark next to the Edgewater Dollar Store, waiting. Two old ladies hobbled by in faded housedresses and smiled at me in the sunlight. I stood proud and dutiful, clutching my bundle of envelopes bound with a green rubber band. The low morning sun cut Clark in half; the east was cast in cool shade, and the west smoldered in a deep, golden haze. The density of the morning bustle was the same on either side, though one was a mysterious calm, and the other vibrant and naked.
A tan Lincoln Continental swayed up Clark, knifing through the light. It eked to a halt across the street, and Lil Pat waved me over from the driver’s seat. His wrist sparkled. He chuckled as I crossed. His eyes were hazy-pink and tired.
“How ya doin’, kiddo?” he asked.
“Alright,” I answered.
“Did dem sand niggers pay up?” A voice crackled from the shadowed cab.
There were four in the car. Mickey Reid sat shotgun. He was the scariest human being I’d ever laid eyes on. He had a large head, a muscular brow, and his scowl was sunken so deep into his face that it never left.
Lil Pat sighed, turned, and snapped, “Give me a minute with the kid, OK? What de fuck?”
I stepped up to Lil Pat’s door, and he reached out his big, meaty arm and hugged me to his chest. My belly pressed against the sun-baked sheet metal. His body was warm against my head like he had a fever. Funny how sometimes it’s the ones capable of the most horrific deeds who are also capable of the most compassion and the deepest love. Maybe it’s that they’ve seen the dark face of man and what we are capable of that makes them give love this way—to shelter and protect us.
“I love ya, Joey,” Lil Pat whispered, then kissed the side of my crew cut.
I giggled and tried to squirm away, but I knew Lil Pat wouldn’t let go ’til I said it back.
“I love ya,” I squealed, and he finally released.
“Look what I got for you,” he said, pulling a silver chain out of a cup holder in the center console. It had a flat, gold crucifix attached to it with immaculate little etchings traced along it. He reached out and slid it over my big round head. It just barely cleared my ears. I reached up and took the cross in my fingers and rubbed the etchings. Lil Pat reached in through the neck of his shirt and pulled out a matching one.
“Now we both got the same one, kid. How about dat?”
“Thanks, Pat!” Just the thought that I could have something he had made my heart swell with pride.
Fat Buck and another guy snored in the back seat. The car stank of warm beer, piss, and cigarette ash.
“Where’s the envelopes?” Mickey interrupted, staring straight ahead as a big green vein bubbled up on his forehead.
I knew something was wrong when they gave me the envelope at my last stop—the corner store.
The thin, old man stood stoically at the register. A bright red dot on his forehead glistened like a bloody thumb print—the ink had smeared and dribbled down his black eyebrow before it dried on his wrinkled, deep-brown skin. He sneered at me then tossed the envelope on the counter. I grinned, stretched the rubber band, and slid the envelope in beside the other twenty or so.
“Go now! Get out!” The old man shouted as he came around the counter with the broom. I snagged a sucker off a display tray and ran out the door.
I reached the envelopes into the cab, and Mickey snatched them and thumbed through. He plucked the one out and tore it open.
“Thirteen bucks? Motherfuckers!” he yelled.
Mickey’s whole head flared red. These large mounds near his jaw, temple, and above his ear pulsed. It seemed that at any moment each mound would separate, like tectonic plates, and his broiling wrath would finally erupt from him, roar forth and dis-integrate everything it touched.
“Who de fuck gave you de envelope?” Mickey
