her. Things were good for a while, but she was always on his back to get a job. Lucky, he had a couple of buddies in town, so he moved in with them. Now they lived in a tiny apartment. No heat, no bathroom sink, five million roaches. But he’d gotten a job.
He liked the work. It felt good, physical. Much better than his job at the used record store. More than anything, James was happy that the driver was so easygoing, and that the two of them could talk like real people. They’d been working together two weeks already, and James was fascinated to know somebody who was actually from Brooklyn. He loved the way the driver spoke and looked and gestured. To James, it was like watching a movie from the ’70s.
“After this, we’re doing the regular route down Bedford?” James said.
“Yeah. The Asscrack of Williamsburg.”
“Asssscrack!” James laughed. Then he pulled out his smartphone to check the time.
“You know when I was growing up,” Bianco said, “four guys could get high on a quart of beer and that was enough, you know. We mostly got along with the Germans and Irish guys from around McCarren Park, as long as they stayed away from our girls.”
James guffawed.
“We had self-respect, you know. We took care of our own. Back then, a woman could walk the streets any hour of the day.”
“Wow,” James said.
“Then came the wets and the eggplants, you know, with their guns and their knives and their drugs. Then the whole neighborhood went to shit. One time we caught a Spanish guy holding hands with my sister Theresa. We followed him for a while, then we took care of him.”
“You beat him up?” James said.
“We beat him so bad he couldn’t take a regular piss for the rest of his life,” Bianco said. He parked in front of a clothing store. “These two,” he said, signaling two packages.
James took the larger one, scraping his hands under it. “Fuck!”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
Walking to the store, Bianco said, “Like I was saying, now the neighborhood has changed, you know. You have what you call your hipsters and your yuppies moving in. Nice people. Good, clean people. Like you, James, you know.”
James laughed. He didn’t like to be called a hipster. But he didn’t want to get into it. Not today.
* * *
Bedford Avenue was a narrow crevasse of sushi restaurants, computer stores, record shops, art galleries, and clothing stores with Soho prices. During Christmas season, delivering along Bedford’s busiest strip—about five blocks—could take six hours.
James picked on a tiny piece of skin on his right pinky. After some time they stopped in front of 175 North 5th Street.
“Stay here,” said Bianco, picking up two packages. “This’ll be quick.”
Just as Bianco jumped off the truck, James said, “Hey, isn’t this for the same address?” He was holding up the package Bianco had picked.
“Nah, I think they marked it wrong.”
“Are you sure? It’s the same address.”
“I’m sure, kid. Leave that there.”
James stood there, holding the package.
“Leave it there,” Bianco said again.
At that moment, the woman who lived at 175 North 5th Street came down the street. She smiled at Bianco. “Frank! I’ve been waiting for you. You should have the last of my Christmas shopping.”
“I got these,” he said, moving closer to the building.
She looked at the packages. “Yes and yes. But I was supposed to get something from Apple.”
Bianco felt it before it happened.
“Hey! Is this it?” James jumped from the truck with the package.
“Ooh, yes! That’s it! Perfect.”
Bianco’s face went poker blank as she signed for the packages.
“You missed that one, boss,” James said. “See, I told you.”
“Good looking out,” Bianco said. “Good looking out.”
Back in the truck, James began to chew his hand again. Bianco gave him a dead-eyed look. “Maybe you should get some gum,” he said.
“Whaddya mean?”
“You chew your finger
He liked the work. It felt good, physical. Much better than his job at the used record store. More than anything, James was happy that the driver was so easygoing, and that the two of them could talk like real people. They’d been working together two weeks already, and James was fascinated to know somebody who was actually from Brooklyn. He loved the way the driver spoke and looked and gestured. To James, it was like watching a movie from the ’70s.
“After this, we’re doing the regular route down Bedford?” James said.
“Yeah. The Asscrack of Williamsburg.”
“Asssscrack!” James laughed. Then he pulled out his smartphone to check the time.
“You know when I was growing up,” Bianco said, “four guys could get high on a quart of beer and that was enough, you know. We mostly got along with the Germans and Irish guys from around McCarren Park, as long as they stayed away from our girls.”
James guffawed.
“We had self-respect, you know. We took care of our own. Back then, a woman could walk the streets any hour of the day.”
“Wow,” James said.
“Then came the wets and the eggplants, you know, with their guns and their knives and their drugs. Then the whole neighborhood went to shit. One time we caught a Spanish guy holding hands with my sister Theresa. We followed him for a while, then we took care of him.”
“You beat him up?” James said.
“We beat him so bad he couldn’t take a regular piss for the rest of his life,” Bianco said. He parked in front of a clothing store. “These two,” he said, signaling two packages.
James took the larger one, scraping his hands under it. “Fuck!”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
Walking to the store, Bianco said, “Like I was saying, now the neighborhood has changed, you know. You have what you call your hipsters and your yuppies moving in. Nice people. Good, clean people. Like you, James, you know.”
James laughed. He didn’t like to be called a hipster. But he didn’t want to get into it. Not today.
* * *
Bedford Avenue was a narrow crevasse of sushi restaurants, computer stores, record shops, art galleries, and clothing stores with Soho prices. During Christmas season, delivering along Bedford’s busiest strip—about five blocks—could take six hours.
James picked on a tiny piece of skin on his right pinky. After some time they stopped in front of 175 North 5th Street.
“Stay here,” said Bianco, picking up two packages. “This’ll be quick.”
Just as Bianco jumped off the truck, James said, “Hey, isn’t this for the same address?” He was holding up the package Bianco had picked.
“Nah, I think they marked it wrong.”
“Are you sure? It’s the same address.”
“I’m sure, kid. Leave that there.”
James stood there, holding the package.
“Leave it there,” Bianco said again.
At that moment, the woman who lived at 175 North 5th Street came down the street. She smiled at Bianco. “Frank! I’ve been waiting for you. You should have the last of my Christmas shopping.”
“I got these,” he said, moving closer to the building.
She looked at the packages. “Yes and yes. But I was supposed to get something from Apple.”
Bianco felt it before it happened.
“Hey! Is this it?” James jumped from the truck with the package.
“Ooh, yes! That’s it! Perfect.”
Bianco’s face went poker blank as she signed for the packages.
“You missed that one, boss,” James said. “See, I told you.”
“Good looking out,” Bianco said. “Good looking out.”
Back in the truck, James began to chew his hand again. Bianco gave him a dead-eyed look. “Maybe you should get some gum,” he said.
“Whaddya mean?”
“You chew your finger
Similar Books
