Paulie Arcevita is a nineteen year-old out of Brooklyn, a rogue and a ruffian, he got chops from the “school of hard knocks.” Cut fresh and edgy, with an attitude as sharp as a butcher’s knife, he’s still got a heart of gold under that metallic hard surface. Everything Paulie does he does the hard way.
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Every time I walk somewhere I look at the ground, but there is no money on the ground. I know for a fact people lose money, but I walk everywhere and I never see any lost money – and forget about a wallet. Man, how I’d love to see a wallet with some money. Or a bag with some money. I’d be crazy with excitement if I ever found a bag of money.
I’m walking like I do on some avenue that’s kind of dirty with houses that don’t turn on their lights at night and during the day their blinds are shut. They gotta’ keep it out, you know. I know behind those blinds is some kind of dysfunctional shit going on. People who leave the door open, lights on, they seem more normal.
Several months, you know, after this, like what I’m telling you, I’m walking – again – and one day, I’m walking, right, and I pass near a forgotten lot and these bushes are enormous like no one, and I mean no one – has ever trimmed them or taken care of them in any way, right. So in the bushes is a bag. The bag is small and it’s ripped just a little so I pick it up. The rip in the bag reveals a little piece of paper with a paisley design and, at its end, where the white creamy border is, is curled just a little so you know it’s packed tightly. I’m thinking, Oh, Jesus, it’s money, Oh, Jesus, it’s money! My balls are itching with excitement. I ignore the marsh-like mud that creamed one of my boots, and I grab the bag. I’m excited and I wipe the mud off my boot on the back of my other leg and get my jean leg dirty, but I don’t care. So I’m holding this bag and then all of a sudden I feel angst! Now I feel kind of criminal and figure it’s normal and I begin to walk with the bag detouring my original destination. I go behind the bakery and sit way back behind the garbage and I open the bag. Sure enough, there’s a roll of twenty dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band and a deposit slip for $2500.00. The address on the deposit slip reads “Van Vranken Avenue Garage.”
I keep the money in the bag and take out two twenties. I go into the local DVD store – one still left that hasn’t been hit by Netflix and Blockbuster. Don’t ask me how this guy is still making it. Anyway, I’m taking my time, spinning through the store, and I feel like the clerk is rushing me. He knows me as a customer who usually goes to the back room where all the porn is and where the kids aren’t aloud in. Today he’s surprised when I pull out cash and pay for two movies instead of renting them.
At the counter he says to me, “Popcorn?” like he knows I always take the popcorn, and I could see he’s wondering how come I didn’t get no popcorn for free.
“Because, man,” I wanted to say, “I don’t eat your lousy heat lamp popcorn no more. Only when I got these shit-ass movies for rent did I want your heat-lamp popcorn because I felt like that was part of the deal. But now, now, I’ve got no deals to make with anybody because I’ve got money on me!” But I don’t say anything, no. I just tell him, “No, thanks.”
Then I pass George the mechanic. He hasn’t seen me in a while. I never pass that way, that street, whatever way you want to say it. And I like George and all, and him and I get along good and he’s a good mechanic. He’s surprised to see me and we shake hands.
“Man,” he says after I hand him the money I owed him from, God knows how long ago. “What? Did you hit the lotto, Paul?” he tells me.
George got a greasy face and greasy hands and grease under his fingernails. I like George, but George knows a lot of people, and he’ll stand around in his shop for hours talking about people and I’ll probably be one of them. I don’t need that. George fixed my car almost a year ago right before I got hit with a DUI and lost my license. Then I had to park my car and that’s when I owed George money. “No, George. I’m working now, and I’m doing good. I didn’t hit no Lotto.” That’s what I told him.
It was good to pay off George. It was an old debt – $150.00 bucks. Now I can walk on this street again. When I said goodbye to George he was standing under the shop’s sign: Van Vranken Avenue Garage.
This one guy I know parked his Miata in a garage and somebody broke into the garage and stole his freakin’ hard top. That’s lousy. So even though my car’s in a garage and I can’t drive it for another three months – and it kills me, because it’s gonna’ be summer soon and I won’t get to the beach, and I won’t get to show up for softball practice because the park is way out of the way, and I’m gonna’ have to hoof it everywhere, even with this freakin’ money – and me, like a jerk, gives it to the video guy, and then back to George. Shit man, what am I gonna’ do? What if George catches on? Holy shit. I’m gonna’ be in so much freakin’ trouble it’s not funny.
So I keep walking and I know I got to be home. I got to feel safe. I feel uptight. I want to watch the movies. The bus is coming, that’s good. I get on the bus, and I could tell it’s a new driver but I can’t tell if this driver is a man or a woman. The black girls are sitting way in the back. The same girls – I’ve seen them before; they go up to the community college and take the bus pretty regularly. The three of them, here they go, whenever they see, they start singing.
© Terry Rachel, 2011
A Hardscrabble Daughter 