Tough Luck by Jason Starr

squeezed as hard as he could.
    “You fuckin’ bastard,” Sal Prada said.
    When the tip of the knife was no longer piercing his skin, Mickey kneed his father in the balls. Sal grunted, then Mickey heard the knife fall onto the floor. Mickey went to his knees and felt around. The apartment wasn’t completely dark—there was some light coming from the lampposts outside—but Mickey’s eyes hadn’t adjusted yet and he could barely see. Finally, Mickey felt the blade part of the knife, but before he could grip the handle, his father grabbed it. Mickey went for his father’s wrist again; he could only squeeze with his right hand, the one without the stitches. They struggled on the floor. Mickey didn’t know where the knife was, and he was afraid it would go into his chest.
    “Let go!” Mickey yelled. “Just let go!”
    Mickey caught a glimpse of his father’s face—Sal Prada looked like a maniac, with his teeth clenched and his eyes wide open. Sal lunged forward and Mickey felt a slash on his left arm, above his elbow.
    “Fuckin’ idiot!” Mickey yelled. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”
    Sal tried to stab Mickey again, but this time Mickey saw the blade coming. He grabbed the handle, over his father’s hand, and gradually managed to pry his father’s fingers loose. Finally, Mickey freed the knife. He stood up and his father grabbed one of Mickey’s legs. Mickey kicked his father in the head and his father let go. Mickey went to the end of the hallway and turned on the hallway light.
    Sal Prada stood there, looking confused. Mickey checked his arm—it was bleeding, but the cut wasn’t as deep as he’d feared.
    “You could’ve killed me, you fuckin’ moron,” Mickey said. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”
    “What’re you doing here?” Sal said. “There was a guy breaking into the house. I saw him breaking in.”
    Mickey went into the bathroom and rinsed his arm in the sink. The bleeding stopped quickly, but he knew it could have been a lot worse.
    Dressing the wound, he decided he couldn’t live this way anymore. He was going to put his father away in a home, like he should’ve a long time ago. That would solve problem number one. But he would still need money, to pay off the rest of the debt to Artie and to pay for his own expenses when he started college next year.
    Mickey watched the end of the ten o’clock news, then he watched The Odd Couple, the one where Oscar goes to the fat farm. Mickey had seen the episode dozens of times before, and he just lay in bed in the dark, staring at the screen, hardly paying attention.
    During The Honeymooners —the one where Ralph takes his boss out to dinner and tries to pick up the check he can’t afford—Mickey called Chris.
    “I just walked in the door,” Chris said.
    “About that thing we were talking about before in the parking lot,” Mickey said.
    “What about it?”
    “I want in,” Mickey said.

7
    CHRIS WAS WAITING by his front door.
    ”My mom’s home, let’s go up to my room,” Chris said.
    Mickey followed Chris past the living room, where Mrs. Turner was sprawled out on the couch in her nightgown with the TV going and a bottle of gin on the floor nearby. Her mouth was halfway open and she was snoring loudly. She used to be good-looking with long blonde hair and always wore tight, sexy outfits. Now she’d put on about fifty pounds, her face was wrinkled and drawn, and she had short graying hair.
    In Chris’s room, Chris locked the door and cleared some dirty laundry off of a chair and told Mickey to sit down. Posters of Rush, Led Zeppelin, and Gladys Portuguese hung on the far wall, and the latest centerfolds from Penthouse and Hustler were thumbtacked to the wall above Chris’s bed.
    Chris sat down on the bed across from Mickey and said, “So what made you change your mind?”
    “I don’t know if I changed my mind,” Mickey said. “I just want to hear what the thing is first.”
    “I can’t tell you anything