Mick by Chris Lynch

matters, but just to know, what are you, anyway?”
    I got a quiver. Sully had no natural feeling for this kind of thing, for dealing with people. Toy pushed back his chair, stood, put his palms flat on the table, leaned way across in Sully’s direction. “I’m a live human being,” he said in a scary low rasp. “And if you ask me that question one more time you’re going to be able to say you used to be one.”
    “I... I’ll just take this to go,” Sully said, raising the beer to us like a toast. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” And he ran.
    I was humiliated. I was ashamed of my friend. I was ashamed of my brother. I was ashamed of my parents, of my food, of the stupid “God Bless Our Humble Home” plaque hanging, grease-encrusted, over the washing machine. I gulped my beer.
    “Thank you for inviting me to your home,” Toy said.
    “They didn’t mean anything,” I said. “None of them. They just don’t know nothing.”
    He waved it off. “So, how’d you like my house?”
    I laughed because he made me feel better.
    That and the beer, loosened me. “Your ma isn’t around, I guess, huh?”
    Toy patted me on the shoulder. It was the first time he had ever touched me, a fact that I realized at the instant of contact.
    “The quiet one on the left was my ma,” he said.

The Line in the Sand
    “I HEARD SOMETHIN’,” TERRY said, shaking me awake.
    “So, you heard something,” I said, slapping his hand away.
    He stood there over my bed, shaven, smelling of sweat and of everything he’d eaten and drunk the day before—knockwurst, onion rings, eggs, twelve different kinds of cheese, and, surprise, beer—ready for work in his baggy overalls and dark blue T-shirt with the pocket. Like a lot of other animals, Terry’s a creature of habit. Shaving every single morning, but not showering until nighttime, sometimes not till three A.M. , even if he smelled like goats. And he never left the house without a pocket T-shirt. He has ten of them, different colors.
    “Augie tells me he seen you wit a undesirable,” he said.
    I tried to roll back over. “Go to work, will ya, Terry.”
    He grabbed my shoulder and ripped me back. “Name of Toy. You know who I’m talkin’ about?”
    “What do you care who I hang out with? Get yourself a life, for chrissake.”
    He paused, the pause that’s supposed to mean he’s being patient with me, letting me get away with something wise but that I better not do it again. “Thing is, that you’re sorta my responsibility, lame or not, so I gotta look out for stuff, tell ya things. You’re lucky ta have me, y’know.”
    “I feel lucky,” I cracked. “I really do. I want you to tell me things, Terry. Tell me things like ‘Goodbye,’ or ‘Adios,’ or ‘Ciao,’ that would be nice.” I didn’t really care anymore what he thought, what he might do to me. I just wanted him the hell out of my room.
    He went all cool, half for dramatic effect, half because he had no idea how to handle backtalk. “Okay then, since neither one of us seems to have the time for this bullshit, let me just tell ya, Mick. Be careful who you spend your time with. It’s one a the important rules of hangin’ out: associatin’ with bad news is pretty much the same as bein’ bad news y’self. So even a innocent little shit like you can sometimes get a little a what we might call a spillover burn from bein’ a little too close to somebody who’s a little too hot. Knowatamean, boy?”
    He smiled, that rotten little goddamn yellow-tooth smile as he waited for me to react. I wanted to throw it in his face that he sat right across the table from Toy in his own house and he didn’t even figure it out. I wanted to ask him what his problem was with Toy anyhow, almost asked even, except I knew what a stupid question that would be. Did he need a reason? Did he ever need reason to start this kind of bullshit with somebody? No, the only thing that really stuck with me here, the only thing that seemed