Most days Kid stood at the top of the off-ramp on Marion Street and I-94 where a stoplight paused traffic for a while. He held up a handmade sign that read, “
“What kind of work?”
“Chopping bushes out of his yard, putting new bushes in. This yard, Professor, I tell you, it’s big as a goddamn park. And the house, Jesus.”
He called me Professor because I have a small wire-bound notepad in which I scribble from time to time. Why that translated into Professor, I never knew.
I wanted badly to break the seal on the bottle, but it wasn’t my move.
Kid sat down crossed-legged in the sand on the riverbank. He grinned up at me. “Something else, Professor. He’s got a wife. A nice piece of work. The whole time I’m there, she’s watching me from the window.”
“Probably afraid you were going to steal something.”
“No, I mean she’s looking at me like I’m this stud horse and she’s a…you know, a girl horse.”
“Filly.”
“That’s it. Like she’s a filly. A filly in heat.”
I watched the gleam in Kid’s eye, the fire that danced there. “You already have yourself a few shots of something?”
“It’s the truth, swear to God. And get this. The guy wants me back tomorrow.”
“Look, are we just going to admire this bottle?” I finally asked.
“Crack ’er open, Professor. Let’s celebrate.”
Kid and I weren’t exactly friends, but we’d shared a campfire under the High Bridge for a while, and we trusted each other. Trust is important. Even if all you own can fit into an old gym bag, it’s still all you own, and when you close your eyes at night, it’s good to know the man on the other side of the fire isn’t just waiting for you to fall asleep. Kid had his faults. For a bum, he thought a lot of himself. That came mostly from being young and believing that circumstance alone was to blame for his social station. I’d tried to wise him up, pointing out that lots of folks encounter adversity and don’t end up squatting on the bank of a river, eating out of other people’s garbage cans, wearing what other people throw away. He was good-looking, if a little empty in the attic, and had the kind of physique that would probably appeal to a bored rich woman. He was good companionship for me, always eager and smiling, kind of like a having a puppy around. I didn’t know his real name. I just called him Kid.
The next evening when he came back from laboring in the rich man’s yard, he explained to me about his plans for the guy’s wife.
“She’s got this long black hair, all shiny, hangs down to her hips, swishes real gentle over the top of her ass when she walks. Paints her nails red like little spots of blood at the end of her fingers and toes. Talks with this accent, I don’t know what kind, but it’s sexy. And she’s hot for me, Professor. Christ, she’s all over me.”
Dinner that evening was fish, a big channel cat I’d managed to pull from the river with a chunk of moldy cheese as bait. I was frying it up in the pan I used for everything.
“If this woman is all you say she is, she could have any man she wants, Kid. What does she want with a bum?”
That offended him.
“I’m not like you, Professor. The booze don’t have me by the throat. One break and I’m outta here.”
“Dallying with a bored rich woman? How’s that going to change your luck?”
Kid peered up from watching the fish fry. “I got inside today, looked the place over. They got all this expensive crap lying around.”
“And you’re what, just going to waltz in and help yourself?”
His looked turned coy. “She let me inside today when her old man took off to get a bunch of bushes from the nursery. Asked if I wanted some cold lemonade. Starts talking kind of general, you know. Where I’m from, do I got family, that kind of thing. Then, get this, she tells me her husband’s not a man for her. No lighting in the rod, you know? I tell her that’s a damn shame, all her good looks going to waste. She says, ‘You think I’m pretty?’ I tell her she’s the prettiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Then you know what, Professor? She invites me back tonight. Her old man’s going out of town and she’s all alone. Doesn’t want to be lonely. Know what I’m saying? When it’s dark, I’m heading over.”
“You’re spending the night?”
“Not the whole night. She don’t want me around in the morning for the neighbors to see sneaking off.”
“You sure you’re not on something?”
“Proof, Professor,” he said with a sly grin. “I got proof.”
From his pants pocket, he took a small ball of black fabric. He uncrumpled it and held it toward me with both hands, as if he were holding diamonds. “Her panties.”
Thong panties, barely enough material to cover a canary.
“She gave you those?”
“Reached up under her skirt and slipped ’em off where she stood. Said they’d tide me over until tonight.”
He went to his things and rolled the panties in his blanket.
“Hungry?” I asked.
