Paper Football Champion
Around this time, I actually made a friend at school: Butchie Balkow. Lunch was unbearable, as always. I hated my seating options. Most tables were reserved for the jock club that wouldn't have me as a member. The rest were for the leftover kids like me. So I took an empty table at corner of the lunchroom furthest from the cafeteria trough. Butchie came up to buy a football ticket, which he had never done before. I was surprised when he bet the minimum and made only three picks. "Just for fun," he said. I had seen him around but the jocks always made nice with him, sort of, so I figured he was another hanger on. Just then, the team's future QB, my classmate Tony LaRoche walked by wearing his JV jersey. "What a queer!" I thought.

And I must have conveyed those feelings to him in an expression because Balkow chimed right in. "He's such and asshole, isn't he? You know I blocked for that cocksucker for three years in Pee Wees and he never even said one word to me the entire time? As if it was an honor for me just to huddle up with Mr. Golden Arm. In his dreams. He sucks! You don't believe me?" Tony was sitting down next to White and Bates at the jock table about 10 yards from us.

"Hey, Tony!" The future varsity captain turned around. "You suck!" The other guys laughed and Tony, not knowing what to make of Balkow, who towered over him, smiled uncomfortably.
I laughed with Butchie and we went up to get our food together. When we got back near the tables, I was half expecting him to peel off somewhere away from me. But he followed me back to where we met. So, that became our table. And some of his other friends started hanging out with us there during lunch, too. We just did stupid guy stuff like play paper football.

After a couple weeks, I became the king of that game. The football is a piece of paper folded over and over again into a tightly packed triangle. The object was to flick it with a finger so that one corner jutted out past the edge of the table without falling off. That was a touchdown. If you went over, it was a turnover. If you fell short, you had the option of going for the edge of the table one more time OR you could kick a field goal. The uprights were the two thumbs of the opponent and the crossbar was his adjoining forefingers. The smart play was to kick field goals. I became so good at kicking field goals that Balkow used to set up tables during study hall to see how far we could go. He had a straight-on style, meaning he held the football down on a point and kicked the thin edge. I used a "soccer-style" method, resting the ball on a flat edge and kicking the wide part of the "ball." That was the way to get accuracy, but usually sacrificing distance. Now, you'd think distance is only important in study-hall kicking contests, not in official game play. But distance translates into speed and power and allows you to torment your opponent by hitting him right in the forehead while he's sitting there totally defenseless, with both hands tied up in making that stupid goalpost. One of the guys who sat with us most days, Jack Dottinger, was a really friendly (maybe to compensate for his horrible case of acne that tortured him, I guessed, as did my horrible case of fat). I'd nail him once for fun and then aim for his shirt. But Balkow took great pleasure repeatedly whacking him between the eyes. It got to the point where Jack would squint his eyes closed and turn his head to protect himself. But Balkow would just hesitate on the field goal for as long as it would take for Jack to open his eyes and turn his head to see what the hell was taking so long. Then, thwack. But Butchie did it with such good humor that Jack never stayed mad. It was just funny kid stuff. It gave me something to look forward to at school every day. And it was totally unrelated to any "problems" in my life. It wasn't a search for meaning or understanding or whatever the hell I was seeking from Mad. And it wasn't some response to the frustrations I felt, like the porn and booze was with Graz. It was normal.

Bathroom Break
The stuff with Graz was getting out of control. There, I admit it. My mother kept going on and on about drugs but never asked about drinking. Maybe she didn't want to know. Or maybe she knew that if she did I would just fire back at her that she has a lot of nerve asking that question when she's out with drinking with her alcoholic friends three or four nights a week.

By now, the beer wasn't doing anything for me except making me fatter. I hated the taste, preferring a nice cold Coke to a beer any day. So, we moved on to harder stuff, which tasted even more disgusting. But it was cheaper, quicker, and made the world spin around you even faster.

Once, Graz bought a bottle of blueberry schnapps (which tasted like blueberry Listerine). It was a cold winter night. Darkness set in early. My mom was off at work, as always. Graz showed me the little pint bottle that he carried in his coat pocket when I was finishing up my route. I invited him up. He poured us some and warned me about drinking it. I laughed at him for treating me like a child. But when I drank it, I did all I could not fall down from wincing so hard. My throat felt like it was on fire. Graz just laughed like some demon. After the taste returned to my mouth, I was off to the races.

After a couple of shots, I felt all warm and happy. Around this time, we heard the click clack from the high heels of the babe upstairs. Since she had her shoes on, we knew she was getting ready to go out. We fantasized, as always, about what we would do if she was ours. How there'd be no going out. Ever. Graz asked me if I ever said hello to her. I looked at him like he was nuts.

"Hey, it's just a question. Why not?"
"Have you, Mr. Big Shot?"
"I don't live in the same building as her. It would just be neighborly. Just a, 'How's it goin'?'"
"'How's it goin'?' Yeah. That'll work, Romeo."
"F**k you. Why not ask her to subscribe to that rag you deliver?"

I couldn't even imagine her reading the paper. If I was her, I'd just look at myself all day. Naked. In the mirror. I imagined her doing that and, coupled with the schnapps, started drifting into a warm, happy place.

"You should do it today," Graz said.
"What?"
"Beat her downstairs. Make believe we're heading up. When you pass her on the stairs, say, 'Hello.' And ask her if you could stop by tomorrow to talk about her joining the growing nation of happy Record subscribers."
"Stop it."
"Why not give it a shot? Maybe she'll be all hot when you stop by and changing or something. Maybe she'll be getting ready to take a shower," Graz continued. "Hey, anything can happen."
"Yeah, in Penthouse Forum, Graz," I said. "Buy a vowel, bro'; that stuff isn't real."
"It is! I know for a fact it is. I have a second cousin who submitted a letter and they ran it and printed his name and everything."

Graz got up and opened the door. "Either you're going for it, or I will."
He raced down the stairs. He didn't even have a coat. I grabbed mine and followed.
Within a minute or two, she was walking down the stairs. I waited outside to "accidentally" meet her in the doorway. But I saw the headlights of a car behind me. It was her boyfriend's Caddy.
"f**kin' prick!" Graz said.

I felt like she was cheating on me. This was supposed to be our time. A moment, perhaps. But this jackass was cutting in on me.

Graz and I bitched about it all night. We soon polished off our bottle and walked all the way into the middle of town to get another. We drank that one on the way home. I was completely s**t-faced when we got back to my house. Graz pointed to a car. It was the Caddy.

"Some date that turned out to be," he said. "I bet he's up there f***ing her right now."
It all seemed so unfair. And I had to go to the bathroom so bad. So, naturally and logically (or then it so seemed) I peed all over his car.

When Graz looked at me in disbelief after I finished and zipped up (or at least tried to), I remember suddenly fearing that I just did something really stupid. But what could I do now? Wash it off? The fear vanished when Graz congratulated me like I just hit the jumper to win the Knicks the title. We bounded upstairs, laughing like a couple of hyenas, stumbling like the drunks we were. I don't think we could have made a bigger commotion.

Graz hung around a while. But we heard nothing from our victim (okay, my victim). The alcohol buzz faded and was replaced by an equal measure of regret. Graz split out the back door when we saw my mom pulling up. I went to bed before she even got up the stairs, my head pounding. Maybe he wouldn't even notice. Maybe it left no stain and acted just like water.

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. A quiet, polite knock. My mom answered. I stayed in my room. It couldn't be anyone for me. Things were still tense with Mad. And Graz knew better than to come over when my mom was home; he sensed that my mom didn't like him at all.

I heard the quiet hum of conversation for a minute or so from my room near the front door and was about to drift back to sleep when my mother came into my room and calmly told me that someone wanted to talk to me. My jaw dropped when I saw the Guido boyfriend of the upstairs babe, in the flesh. S**t!! I tried to keep my composure and maintain an air of innocence. But… S**t!! F**k!!! I mean, he knew!

My mother decided for once to make herself scarce. She was all the way down the hall doing God knows what in the kitchen. Thanks, Mom!

"What's your name?"

He was so calm, I froze up. I wondered for a minute whether he knew. But he had to, right?
After I told him, he told me to follow him and walked down the stairs. I didn't follow, of course. I was looking back down the hall for my mommy like a little girl.

"It's OK. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want you to see what you did."
Again, his calmness was eerie. I followed him outside.
"I didn't DO anything."
"Please. Don't insult me. I'm not your daddy or your mommy."
I said nothing and we finally stopped at his car or, as it now seemed, the toilet.
"You see that? You know what that is?" Again, I played dumb, which was very easy, under the circumstances.

"That's a piss stain from someone peeing on my car. And I know you did it. We heard you too drunken a**holes stumble up the stairs in the middle of the night. I figured you did something to my car because you're so hung up on my lady…."

He actually said that, "My lady." I had to suppress a laugh. I couldn't wait to tell Graz. "You're so hung up on my lady…."

"…But I didn't see any damage from her window so I figured you were laughing about something really funny like your first boner or your first beer or how different your d**ks feel in your left hand. But then I saw this when I got to my car this morning. You know, I wish I was 10 years younger so I could kick your ass. But, I'm not and I can't."
"Whew," I thought.

"So, I'll pay to have this cleaned and to have my whole car detailed. And this will all be gone, like new. But, you know what?" He paused, as if waiting for an answer (which wasn't coming). "When this car is as good as new, you'll still be the same pathetic, fat, hopeless loser that pees on other people's cars. Now, I have a younger brother who'd be happy to kick your fat ass if you do anything like this again, understand?"
I nodded like a dork. You know how people say that they thought of something, but didn't have the nerve to say it? Or that they thought of something great to say right afterward, but it was too late? Well, I thought of nothing to say. Still haven't.

But at least it served as another reason for me to be pissed off at my mother. Why on earth would she practically let him in our house? Didn't she have any sense? Oh, he was a man. So, of course, she immediately lost all of her senses.

No Escape
It was now harder to escape my mother. She was hired to be the first female waitress at my restaurant. So I guess that makes her Rosa F***ing Parks. Everyone thought it was so cute, us working together.
I thought it was bull***t. Why couldn't she go somewhere to really get away from Tiny, if he was the problem. Tiny was still planting himself at the bar on most Friday nights downing pounds of scungili and pints of Coke. She said she could just ignore him; that she "didn't have to deal with him." Come on.
Mom and I barely saw each other. I was in the kitchen making salads. She was mostly on the floor. But the buffer zone was shrinking. I needed space from her.

That's horrible, I guess. I mean, it sounds bad. But what am I supposed to say? It's true. Losing my father was forced on me. Losing everyone else was a choice. And the fact that it was a choice made me feel good.

Family's suck. My Grandma Jean couldn't give a s**t how I felt about her. But whenever I saw her, she'd invariably ramble on about my father and what a "bastard" he was. What does that mean, really? Couldn't she think of something better? I just started tuning her out. My Grandma Ed still doted on me, and that made me feel good. But, let's face it, she was aligned with her son in secret against me. No amounts of kindness and compliment could erase that simple truth. I wasn't really everything to her. Her love for me did know bounds, stopping right where her love for her son started. So, I started tuning her out, too. Soon, I stopped visiting all together.

I reached the point where the specifics of my father running out on me seemed stupid. Caring about it, wanting it changed felt childish and babyfied. As that final bit of sadness slowly bled out of me, my anger grew stronger.
Libation

One day, when I was hurriedly eating at our lunch table with Balkow so that we might commence our official PFL (paper football league) game (an official game meant we went from the two short sides of the rectangular table), Bates showed up. His way of refusing to acknowledge my very existence when he couldn't be bothered insulting me was far more annoying than the insults themselves.
"Hey, Butchie, I need a favor," he sat down next to Balkow, who looked at me and rolled his eyes. Bates started to whisper. "We're having a party this weekend at O'Hagen's house and we wanted some libation…" Ass. "Libation."

"…So, we were thinking you could get your older brother to get us a few kegs and a little JD…."
I couldn't contain myself. "Oh, that sounds like a wonderful idea. So when one of you comes home smashed and decides to hump the cat or throws up over mommy's brand new couch, they can come and arrest Butchie's brother. But you get what you want and that's all that matters, right?"
I finally had Bates' attention. He practically spit his words at me.

"Hey, shut the f**k up Lothar, you fat a**hole loser…." Bates wasn't someone who you had to worry about punching you. He had big college aspirations and couldn't have a fight on his record. Throwing someone up against a locker in the relatively private confines of gym was one thing. But out here in public, I had no worries.

I gave him some mock applause. "Nice work," I said. "Glad to see those advanced placement English courses aren't going to waste."

Balkow cut in. "Hey, if you're going to ask me for a favor, don't insult my friend."Bates gave Balkow an "are-you-kidding-me" look. "I'm serious," Butchie said.I remember happily thinking, "Hey, I've got my own table AND a friend."

"I could get you your booze, Bates," I said. I had been kicking around this idea for a while. I couldn't figure out whether I wanted to do it to become part of the in crowd, or simply to make more money. But it's about the Benjamins, baby.

"What are you going to do? There's an age requirement, not a weight one."
"Such wit."
He ignored me, again. I pressed on.
"If I get the football tickets, I can get you some booze, too."

That got Bates' attention. He was still a big customer, though he never demeaned himself by dealing with me directly. I knew which of his minions was carrying his action each week. He always picked the same friggin' teams, the retard.
"What," he said. "You know someone?"
"Never mind," I said.
"Fine, you get us what we want the day before the party and you're invited."
"F**k that, it's going to cost you."

The look on his face made it clear that he couldn't believe that mere proximity to his precious jockworld wasn't enough on an inducement.
"Yeah, how much?"
"Half of whatever you spend."
"What?"
"Pretend this is an SAT question. You spend $100, it costs you $150, get it?"
"F**k no. I'll just get Butchie's brother, right?" He put his hand on Balkow's shoulder like they were best buddies.

Butchie shook his head. "No. I think Miles is right about the risks. If something goes bad because of that booze my brother could get sued or arrested or something."
Bates couldn't believe it. "You're going to believe what he says?"
Balkow nodded.
"My offer stands, Bates."
"Yeah, well, then you can't come to the party."
I pretended to cry. Butchie laughed. I had another line of work.
"But, Miles, aren't you worried about getting into the kind of trouble you described?"
"Nah. Me and my guy are both still minors."

Once when I was worried about getting busted for selling the tickets and voiced that to Tiny, he laughed and said that's the very reason he has kids like me sell the tickets. "You're a minor, kid. Someone finds out and you'll have to write a letter of apology to some dips**t judge. Big deal." Then he laughed some more, as if amused by my innocence or something. I didn't worry anymore.

Graz thought I was a genius. Word got out, obviously. Soon, we were doing two or three parties a week, all supplied by the same liquor store in Paterson. The Middle Eastern guy who worked there didn't even ask Graz (who had grown a convincing beard) for ID. So we were each pocketing at least $100 a week just for making a couple of runs to the liquor store. After a couple of weeks of lugging the booze back to whichever jock house was the site of that week's blast, we saw the delivery sign and added that charge to our deals. We only had to arrange for the store to make deliveries at the right time the night of the parties, i.e., after any nosey parents were long gone and on their way to getting bombed themselves.

Cleaning Lady
So, now I had the tickets, the restaurant, the paper route, and the booze business (for lack of a better term). I was rich, for a kid. Too bad Mom wasn't for an adult.

Maybe I gave her too much grief about working with me. It really wasn't so bad. But why pass up an opportunity to display my general state of anger.

Of course, my mother, with her new interest in psychology and "healing" went off the deep end. She called me into the kitchen one day. As always, I was caught completely off guard.

"I have some good news for you."
I just stared at her. Grunted maybe. As always, I was in no mood to talk, especially about "good news."

As always, she continued, undeterred by my obvious indifference.
"I gave notice at the restaurant."
I perked up a little. That was good news. I just wanted my own space. Is that so bad?
"I quit college."

What? Why? She was doing well. She finally had some long-term plans and worked hard at it. My uncle had been the only person I knew who even went to college and he had money and a nice place to live.

Then came the kicker.
"And I'm starting my own business."
"They let you do that on welfare?" I asked.

Okay, I'm not the most sensitive guy in the world. I swear I didn't mean it to sound the way it must have. I could have phrased it more delicately. But I always wanted to cut out all the fat in my conversations with my mother because I wanted them to be over as soon as possible. Of course, her eyes started to well up immediately and the dreaded sniveling began. That meant a big, emotional, melodramatic "moment" was at hand. I knew I screwed up. But why did she have to react so seriously to everything that I said? Couldn't she just roll with the punches?

"You can be a real bastard, sometime, Miles, you know that," she said through her tears.
"Yeah, well, what does that make you then?"
"GO TO YOUR ROOM!!!"

I laughed, I'm sure. I always thought it was funny when she sent me to my room because that's exactly what I wanted: to be alone. The only thing that sucked was that I knew she would burst in a few minutes later, now more angry than sad.

"Is this the kind of SUPPORT you think I need?"
"Why are you always looking for SUPPORT? You see where that got you with Dad. Are you going to sue me now?" F**k it, I thought. Maybe she wouldn't talk to me for a week, if I was lucky.
"Yeah, you're real smart. Why don't you use your brain in school and maybe you'd bring home better grades!"
"What do you care? You just quit school, remember?"
Now she was crying again. "You ask me to leave the restaurant. I figure, you need your space and you were there first and you're happy there. So I quit and figure out a way to make some decent money and be my own boss and you can't even be happy for me? Why do you hate me? I didn't leave you! Your father did!"

Now I was just embarrassed. I hated when she tried to make it seem like I was some screwed up kid because my daddy left. It had been years. I wanted so badly to be over it.
"Just, please…." I felt drained. I lacked the energy needed to be a smart-ass. That made me feel vulnerable.

Now, I wanted to change the subject.
"Look, I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it that way. Whatever…. Why don't you tell me about this new job."

"I'm starting a daytime cleaning business. And I'm still going to do the waitressing at night, but only good nights and a good restaurant run by good people. I think I can really start making some good money, enough to maybe buy a house."

Maybe I responded too rashly. Could this really be a way to get a house? But you need so much money for that. By the time she got enough, I'd be 18 and long gone, hopefully. So, that's just her pipe dream now. The rest didn't sound so bad at first. But I started to think about the word "cleaning" and got a little bit of a sick feeling.

"Who's going to do the 'cleaning?'"
"I am, at first. I'm going to do small businesses and big houses. Sons will pay me to clean their old mother's or mother-in-law's apartment or condo. People pay a lot for that and it's all cash."
That translated to me as, "We can still get the welfare money." It was such a piddly s**t amount. Why not just be done with it? But we got free medical coverage, I was told. Never mind that I couldn't even remember the last time I needed a doctor; "God forbid you get hit by a car!" Please. And why couldn't I pay a doctor with all the money I was making? But then I'd have to tell my mother my business. That was a no-no, especially the business related to Tiny.

I had bigger problems than welfare now. Imagine what Bates would do if he knew about My Mother the Cleaning Lady. I'm sure I turned white just thinking about it. My mother knew something was up.
"What's wrong? You look like you're going to pass out. Sit down."
"You're going to clean people's houses?"
"I know, I know. You're worried about what your friends would think if they knew."
Yeah, friends. Right.
"I'm only going to do senior citizens in town. No businesses. No homes here. No one around here will know anything."

What if one of those geezers is a grandparent of Bates and Co.?
I just laid down on the bed. I felt overwhelmed. Sick with worry. I didn't want to talk about it and put Mom's Home Therapy back in business. She pulled up my sheets and tucked me in like a child. She even kissed my head and turned on the little TV my father won at a football raffle the year before he split. Who says he left me with nothing?

Gatsby Complex
I had avoided Madison for weeks after our falling out over that damn book. Why would she like her problems diagnosed by me any more than I liked having mine diagnosed by my mom? (Well, at least I didn't cause Madison's problems.)

I wasn't angry over Madison's reaction. I just was clueless over how to set things straight. Should I say I was sorry (again)? Ignore it? My questions led to uncertainty and inaction.
"Look, Miles, I'm sorry about overreacting. You were right."

Ever paranoid, I sensed a trap. Right about what? Right about the books being fantasy bulls**t? Or right about her finding meaning in it that really spoke to her family situation? I wasn't going to say a word until she explained herself. But she didn't. She just went on like there was nothing more to say.

"What was I right about?"
"It seems silly to take a fantasy book so seriously, looking back. Okay?"
That was disappointing. I believed I was right about why she found so much meaning in the book. (Maybe that gave us more in common.) Why did I have to be the only one with a f**ked up family? Ah, just let it go and move on.

"I didn't mean it like that, Madison. Books are great. At least things happen in them for a reason."
We began our long walk to our first house, papers in tow. It was unspoken, but understood, that we were going to do our routes together. Just like old times.
"Do you really think those things about my parents?"
"I like your parents. Well, I don't really know your father. But your mother…." Just lie! "Oh, I don't know...."

"You know, you might be right," she said. "But you took the fun out of those books for me. And you made me feel like a little girl who can't even see the truth, never mind handle it."
I did not want to be a person who did that to her. "…I'm sorry."

"Okay. But now you have to tell me about a book you really like and then I'll read it and ruin it for you and make you feel stupid."

I thought she was joking. But I was grateful for the change of subject.
"You've already read it, I bet."
"What?"
"The Great Gatsby."
"Gatsby…? I barely read it."
"Well, you should try again."
"Why Gatsby?"
"He totally reinvents himself to impress someone who barely remembers he ever existed and he succeeds."
"Yeah, but didn't he steal all that money or something?"
"So? That would matter if he cared about money. But he doesn't even seem to want all the things he buys – his house, his fancy car, his big parties…. He just wants that woman to love him."
"I do remember it ended horribly."
"Well, he just reinvented himself for the wrong person, that's all."
"What right person could be shallow enough for that to matter?"
Not her, I guess.
I ran a paper up a long stairway. Madison was smiling at me when I returned.
"Couldn't you at least lose yourself in a happy fantasy?" she asked.
She didn't understand. Losing myself was a happy fantasy.
"His fake life got him a lot of fake friends who ended up destroying him," she continued. "And, you know what? I find this fantasy of yours is insulting."

She wasn't smiling anymore.
"When you build this fake you and this fake world, am I part of the past that gets left behind?"
I lacked he courage to tell her how ironic the notion was, as she was becoming my Daisy.
"I like the person you really are," she added, finally.
I didn't say anything. I was afraid my voice would crack or tears would form or I would otherwise give my feelings away. Feelings she probably already figured out, anyway.
"So, see, both of our books are stupid," she concluded. "We're even."

Apocalypse Now
The rest of the school year passed without incident. No one found out about my mother's new business.
Mostly, she cleaned beauty parlors during off hours. I went with her on Sunday to a client who was in a mall (which was, of course, closed) and loved it. Mom got in with a key to the back entrance. Once we were inside, I was able to walk around the empty concourse. All the stores were closed and locked up and the lighting was minimal.

I liked the sense of isolation, of feeling like I was in some kind of horror movie. Like in "Dawn of the Dead," stuck in some remnant of a now meaningless civilization. I'd imagine an apocalyptic event. A nuclear attack, maybe. Some kind of worldwide plague. All those high school s**theads wasted. Their cliques demolished. Their jockdom and wealth and perfect little families pulverized and scattered to the wind. All the bulls**t that seemed so important now rendered completely meaningless. Life reduced to the simplicity of survival. Just me and… who? Well, Madison (of course).

I couldn't believe I wasn't even halfway through high school. I could only mark the time. Maybe Gatsby shouldn't have been my literary inspiration. The "Count of Monte Cristo" seems more appropriate. My revenge against my enemies will only be imaginary (and so, too, I feared, would be any hope of transformation).

I soon invited Madison with me to those empty malls. She thought it was cool to hang out there, too, but for reasons far different than mine. I never told her precisely why I liked going there. She surely would have found my post-apocalyptic fantasies and her role in it all so uncomfortably strange. Having her there, though, made the dream seem partly real. And there was something thrilling about that.

Police On My Back
I was really socking it to the dopes at school through the football tickets. By now they were all addicted, chasing after bad money, certain their luck would turn. I openly delighted in their losing, as a kind of "f**k you" response to their obvious loathing for me. I no longer needed my other jobs. But I was saving up for a car and didn't want to lose the other things I was getting from them.
With the restaurant, it was being around food and cooking. I liked getting compliments on my salads and I liked talking with the chef before the doors opened and tasting some of his new creations. Everyone likes the smell of well-cooked food. But I even liked the music in the kitchen: the sizzle of the meats hitting the hot pans; the skiffle of the pans against the stove as the food was being sautéed; the clanging of the dishes as the food was being plated (the cymbals of this symphony).

There was only one thing to like about the paper route. But that was most important.
The tickets were my ticket to bankrolling the car I'd need when I finally got my license. These brats had mommy or daddy to buy them their cars. But why get mad when you can get even? I'd buy my own, with their dollars.

One Friday in September, I was enjoying the solitude of our school library, the one place I really liked at school. I chose to have my study period there as opposed to the cafeteria. Most of the other kids who did likewise were girls more serious about college than they were about having a free period to flirt with the jocks (in other words, not very many). I was reading all the papers except for my Record, which I read over Ho-Hos and chocolate milk before starting my deliveries. Friday was movie review day, so I was very busy getting a cross-section of opinion.

I didn't even look at the front page. Who gave a crap about all that stuff? My study hall partner was Cathy Coratta, who was actually nice to me. She thought that keeping up on current events would help her during college interviews if her SATs (which she always worried about) weren't high enough. I mostly left her alone with her reading, and she did the same to me. Sometimes there would be a topic of mutual interest. She was probably the only kid in school, make that the only person in school, who thought I was smart because she read an essay I wrote on Gatsby that she said made her re-read the book and actually enjoy it, as opposed to trying to figure out with our English teacher why the light and the cars were their chosen colors. By Friday, she was always sick of studying and just wanted to read the papers along with me. My preceding class was right next store, so I was always the first one into the library for that period and able to grab all of the newspapers off the rack.

So, here we were. I was assessing the buzz on the latest vampire flick (in the stuffy Times of all places) while she was going through the Ledger. She interrupted me.
"Miles, did you see this?"

I kind of rolled my eyes in a friendly way. She was always trotting out her analysis of current events to prepare for the day when she'd have to appear so well-informed. I found it mostly tedious but tolerated it because I liked her.

But she was acting all secretive, intent on showing me something silently. Then I saw the headline in the Star Ledger.

NUTLEY BUST BREAKS UP HIGH SCHOOL GAMBLING RING
My stomach sank a little. But she wasn't done with me. She pointed to a paragraph that said the magic words, "students expelled for selling football gambling tickets…."
She arched her eyebrows. I must have turned white. I got that "your father's gone" feeling when the life gets sucked right out of you in a split second, before you're even able to think.
I did not need this s**t! I thought of Tiny all those times saying I didn't have to worry because I was "a minor." Then I thought about all those kids, who hated me, who I trash-talked while taking their money (f**king jackass that I am). They'd love to turn me in! But wait, then I could say that they gambled and they have so much more to lose than me, with their perfect high school records college-of-their-choice lives in waiting. Right?!? Besides, Nutley was pretty far away and no one in our town even got the Ledger, probably. It wasn't delivered, that much I knew. The Record was our paper, and it had no mention of that story. Still.... S**t!

Well, I didn't sell any more tickets that Friday. I didn't keep the slips or anything. The kids buying the tickets kept the receipts, as if they were ever going to be worth anything more than wallpaper. No one could prove anything. But if a couple of people got together and pointed the finger at me, I'd get fried. But why would they admit to buying the tickets? Well, they did it in Nutley, I guess. My head was pounding. Goddamn, lying-motherf**ker Tiny! I guess you can't trust a mobster. Surprise! I suddenly felt like his wife must have felt that day in the luncheonette when she ended up crying on my mother's shoulders. Well, I couldn't cry on my mom's shoulders and bear all her "I told you sos."
I decided to cease operations until I spoke to Tiny. (And maybe for good.) I wouldn't have to wait long, as the Jets were playing at home on Sunday and we already had plans to go.

I never made it to the game.
When Tiny picked me up that Sunday, I practically threw the newspaper at him.
He gave the story a knowing look.
"Yeah. So."
"Yeah so? What's going on?"
"You can read, can't you. Do you live in Nutley?"
I rolled my eyes. Maybe I had a problem with everyone over 18. Come to think of it, I had a problem with most people under 18, too. I had a problem with everyone.
"So then what the f**k are you worried about?" he said.
We started driving into Paterson. It was a depressing drive. Cruddy buildings. Broken glass. Cracked cement and crumbling blacktop. It reeked of desperation, which suddenly seemed real to me. We sat in silence until he arrived at his "club," our usual pit stop before Jet games. He got out. I didn't move.
"I'm not going to hold the door open for you, sweetheart."
I hated when he treated me like a girl to make me think I was being a pussy. I got out of the car.
"I'm not going in."
Tiny had had it.
"What's your f***in' problem?"
"My problem is that you said this wouldn't happen."
I got the "what the hell are you talking about" look.
"Nothing's happened!"
"Look, don't play games with me, okay. You know what's happened. These kids got caught and…
"…and what?"
"You know, trouble. Expelled. Whatever."
"Oh, expelled!" he said in mock horror. "Maybe it's going to end up on their permanent record! Are they in jail? Will they be? Of course not. Stop worrying, princess."
"I don't want to get expelled."
"Well, you should have thought about that before you started selling tickets. Did you think it was f***ing legal?"
"You made it seem like nothing could happen to me."
"Getting expelled is nothing! I didn't even graduate from f**k ing high school! You're a junior now, right? I didn't finish my junior year, either. Look at me. Look at my car! Look at my clothes!"
"Either?" I thought. What does he mean by that?
He reached into his front pocket for the big wad of cash he always had wrapped in elastic bands.
"Look at this!"

Tiny viewed problems differently than I did, than most anyone did, I imagine. On some football Sundays when the Jets were on the road, I used to hang out with him at his club. Tiny eventually built a pigeon coop on the roof that was big enough to conceal all the satellites that allowed him to broadcast games and horse races from all around the country. One afternoon, I noticed a very mangy stray cat stalking an unsuspecting pigeon who was busy eating some bread that Tiny had thrown on the sidewalk. I elbowed him away from a conversation and he banged on the window, startling the bird to flight and saving its life. But it soon returned and the cat got back to stalking. Tiny whispered something into the ear of one of his goons and within moments a gunshot rang out. No more alley cat. The bloody, lifeless animal was picked up by his tail, bagged, and dumped into the trash.

"That was easy," I said.
"It's just as easy to get rid of a person, kid," Tiny replied. And the problems associated with him, one assumes.

So here we stood. Tiny with his big dinosaur wad of cash and his big diamond ring and gold watch next to his sparkling Caddy on the broken sidewalks leading into his gambling hall, which was, for all appearances, an abandoned storefront. We were both right about where that cat had been shot. This was a primrose path he was asking me to follow. His whole life was basically taking money from people who couldn't afford it and doing God knows what to them when they couldn't pay. And it was more than wrong, it was boring. Hanging out with the losers he was forced to hang out with every day? It was good for a few laughs before a Jets game, but 24/7? Come on! And, even worse than being wrong and boring, it was dangerous. I was worried so much about getting expelled. Imagine the things he was worried about. Jail or worse. No way, man. Tiny and me, we were nearing the end of our road. And we both knew it.
"You know what, kid?" Tiny said. "I should take you home."

I declined. It was a long walk back to Hawthorne. But I felt like walking. I had a lot on my mind.