The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  “Yeah, that would work wonders for the situation,” Julie would joke with her right- and left-hand ladies. Alexis and Mercedes. As Julie did from the first time she took her seat and shook hands with them. “Oh look at my good fortune. I’ve always wanted a Lexus and a Mercedes.” They’d looked out for each other ever since. Julie had Alex over for wine (I’ve got pinaht noyer and pinaht griggeo) whenever Alex was dumped by the local bros. She’d go to Mercedes’ daughter’s shows. Better than Broadway! guessed Julie as she showered Shanna Suggs with flowers and hugs. Right, TJ? And of course, Alex and Merce group hugging Julie at the church. Her mom in a hearse. Alex always offering double-date prospects to Julie. This Friday? Julie would say as she glanced at the most recent school picture pinned up at her desk. I’m already taken. Alex would catch her drift. Handsome guy you’ve got there. And just last week, Julie was scooped to that new high school program. By Merce. Horizons. Diverse.

  The Lexus, the Jewels, and the Mercedes. Banking ten big ones an hour. Their riches found in each other. Right- and left-hand ladies in a sea full of them. Crammed into rows of desks like rats. Headsets strapped on like tagged tiger sharks. Doing the dirty work for the corner office crony. Part rat part tiger part shark. Julie’s boss. Donald Harris. Or Mr. Harris as he required her to address him. Anything to hold his hegemony and his position in the good old boys’ club. The one that carted him out from the Midwest to sit in on the Jersey subsidiary. And sit in he did. All goddamn day locked in his office in her hometown. With his radio on and the blinds down. (And don’t even get Julie started on the corporate retreat. The allegations in Allegheny. Sex with his secretary. Twenty-seven and twenty-seven years younger.) Sitting there in his chair any time Julie brought an issue to his attention. Kicked back with his belly buttressing his BlackBerry. Like a Roman ruler with a bowl full of blackberries. Well, what do YOU think we should do, Janie? That sounds good. Let’s do that. Then he’d cut her off when the thing on his belly started vibrating. Like he was radioactive. Then back to his radio and being inactive.

  All to pay off the college debt from the distinguished school Julie went to. UCLA. University Closest to the Linden Area. And to maybe one day help Franco bail out of Bunns Lane once and for all. While the domestic plans may have stalled, Julie had since made it a rung up the corporate ladder. To Special Manager of Customer Affairs. Aka The Lady Who Gets Shit Done. Her reward was being called in for every storm no matter the time or day. And because of her grace under fire like she was Grace Under Fire, Julie had recently begun traveling. Who needs Hawaii when you can get carted off to the biggest crises along the Northeast Corridor? To be the final backstop for the biggest bitches and bastards calling into the company. The ones who were so clever, they wanted to talk to the manager’s manager! On the bright side, Julie was now making a quarter the comp of Harris.

  Franco’s Julie. If only those complaining customers could see her eyes, they’d know everything would be okay. Unless those eyes were looking like they currently did before Franco. Cuz then there was a whole other storm to worry about.

  The boxer’s daughter and martial artist’s ex had a toughness all her own. One that allowed her to work full-time, raise TJ, and put her mother to rest. Not to mention take on the debt forged by her late father.

  Julie’s father, Zaichek, was the son of Irish and Belarusian immigrants. His Belarusian mother had passed down her blonde hair and blue eyes. Gave him a look like he was straight outta Siberia. And gave him his name in the ring. The Belarusian Bulldog. A first-generation American who grew up on potatoes and borscht. And was built like a fuckin horse.

  Zaichek’s wife, Naomi, had been mulling for months what to name the baby in her belly. The baby she talked to all summer while The Bulldog was on the road. With two months to go, Naomi was down to two names. But if she named the baby Bathsheba (Betty for short), she’d be letting her Italian side down. And if she named her Sigismonda (Mandee for short), she’d be letting her Jewish side down. The 1970s seven-month pregnant mom was so stressed, she did what her doctor blessed. She was having a smoke when her water broke.

  While Naomi was passed out from the emergency C-section, Zaichek had dashed in from the road. There was his nugget of a newborn. In the incubator with the blank card. Wailing. Flailing.

  “By the way. We still need a name,” said the nurse as she led the blue-eyed man with the busted nose and battered ears over.

  “Eh what the hell were those names?” said Zaichek with a hand to his forehead. “Bethesda? Sigmund Freud?”

  The nurse picked up the premature baby eager to get on with this crazy little thing called life. (Though if the baby knew then what she knew now, she’d still be holed up.) The nurse handed her over. “What was that? For a name?”

  The blue-eyed man looked down. Was floored by the itty-bitty baby with the big eyes. Looking right at him. With the same eyes his mother had given him. The baby even looked like his mother. As if she had been reborn. His face lit up as he looked into those eyes. “Yulie.”

  “Julie?”

  The man couldn’t hear a word. He was in another dimension. Transported by those baby blues. To younger days. Standing there holding his baby girl. Nodding and smiling. The whole world around him could’ve crumbled for all he cared.

  And crumble it did. The blond bomber had boxed his way to a brick box on Bucknell Ave. After growing up in an apartment, his only dream in life was to own a piece of God’s green earth. The day he was to pay off the mortgage, he was in the morgue. They stuck him six feet under and stuck Julie’s family with a $60,000 lien on the house. The guy who once slugged as hard as Babe Ruth had racked up big bills over his fight-induced Lou Gehrig’s. Young Julie would sit at his bedside looking into his lost eyes. A Mrs. Robinson wondering where did he go? Her Joe DiMaggio. Now only talking the occasional nonsense. Like he was Yogi Berra. Looking nothing like he did in the picture of him, Julie, and Mickey on their mantel. And the $60,000 owed, after admin fees, totaled out to 61. Like he was Roger Maris. Dead before his time. Like he was Thurman Munson. And what does Young Julie do? Starts the cycle all over again. The well-raised no-condom Catholic girl thought they could play her cycle. Instead, her beau hit right for it like he was Don Mattingly. The news of the home run that did Julie in came a couple days before she was to leave for Bucknell. Instead, she was sentenced to a life on Bucknell. But she wasn’t gonna let it defeat her. Her boy would put his career first. Like he was Derek Jeter.

  And now that Grandma was also gone and Julie was called out to a storm…

  “I need you to take him,” reported the manager.

  Franco gnawed one of his gloves off. “You want the rest? I’m full,” he said as he offered the glove to Julie. Her blue eyes only froze him out further. Franco dropped his gloves and the jokes as he mulled it over. The Frog was due to leap over to his house. And who knows what crooked shit he’d be into after that. More importantly, Franco had two-a-days for the next two weeks. All leading up to the biggest fight of his life. “Thought I was the problem. Now I’m the solution?”

  “Do you have a better one?” Julie said as the bright lights of the boxing gym baked her blues. Blues weathering the stew of sweat, fungus, and mold swirling about. Franco always told her it was the easiest way to figure if you were a fighter. Walk into a place like this, take one whiff of that, and you’ll know. Does it make you wanna run for hills? Or does it give you thrills?

  And there Franco was, still breathing heavy from his roller coaster ride in the ring. Sucking it all in. Right at home. But there his son was. Looking for a home of his own. Franco looked once more into Julie’s blues. Then waved T over. “A little notice woulda been nice,” said the defeated fighter.

  “I’ve had him for five years. You can handle five days,” countered the victorious fighter, dropping her opponent again.

  Julie put her hands on TJ’s shoulders. “What are you?”

  The little guy surrounded by a gym full of fighters could’ve m
elted to the mat with embarrassment.

  “What are you?”

  “Your heart and your soul,” mumbled TJ.

  Franco watched as Julie embraced TJ with a love that rivaled the fury she had for Franco. With a love that rivaled…the love she once had for Franco. When he was T’s age.

  “Take care of my boy.”

  “Aye aye captain,” Franco said with a salute.

  Captain Julie shook her head. Then shipped up to a Boston blizzard.

  TRACK 5. FROGGER

  AS THE FROG TURNED his Caddy onto Turner Street, his town turned around him. Back in ’98, he knew all the right streets to maneuver his prior green machine onto. Knew all the right CDs to queue into his six-disc changer. Most often the Rolling Stones as he rolled in his throne. The Frog’s bushy eyebrows would rise in the rearview as he admired his salt and pepper hair. The salt of wisdom. The pepper of youth. A handsome devil cranking “Sympathy for the Devil.” A wise man who would stick to Green Street and its trickle of upkept colonials. Barron Ave where the block was lined with American flags on the Fourth of July. Hollywood Drive outfitted with Christmas, Merry fuckin Christmas, decorations in December. And in the spring, The Frog would crawl his classic Corvette down Main Street in the Saint Paddy’s Day parade. In the summer, he’d arrange financing for the festivals at Demitri’s and the Iberian. He even coordinated the Columbus Day Fair in the fall. And no matter the season, The Frog could drive and see the signs. The pizza slice atop Palermo’s. The flag outside the Iberian. The diner lights of Demitri’s. The neon shamrock in the window of Tiffy’s. Signs that it was his town.

  Now? In ’08? The jaded man in the jade Caddy couldn’t even trust the signs. He cruised past Bobby’s New York Deli. Fuh. Now owned by Habib from New Delhi. Past Sally’s Cleaners. Heh. Sally from South Korea. The Frog had to hand it to em, though. One generation. Parents don’t even know the language and their kids are acing the SAT. Buyin up the borough left and right. One more generation, they’ll take the whole town. Hey, whatever gets those corporate fat cats a two-dollar tech division. Keep shipping em on in. Or shipping the jobs out. Whichever option inflates the stock options. Who gives a fuck about The Frog’s nephew and his $100,000 college debt? Besides the financial fat cats getting fatter off that. At least his niece could always find work in this great nation’s fastest-growing industry. “Adult entertainment.” Hey, whatever sounds better on the way to the bank. So long as there’s no Chapter 11, who cares about Chapter 69? Moral bankruptcy. And when The Frog banked a right, he couldn’t believe what he saw on his left. The Message of the Week on the high school bulletin board. The American public high school. El único constante es cambio. The Frog stepped on the gas. Couldn’t say adios fast enough.

  He stopped at a red light outside Tiffy’s. His old jukebox bar. Now such a shit show, they had a second sign out front. About no baggy clothes. No gang colors. Right on the door of his old haunt. Once home to wiseguys with ’staches and mullets. Now home to thugs with stashes and bullets.

  Even St. Paddy’s Day was suffering. Every year attendance was sinking to Cinco de Mayo. The summer festivals weren’t as full either, were they? And the clusterfuck around Columbus Day. Holy Christ. There was a push in the district to ditch it for Diwali Day. Who the fuck was Diwali? Did he discover America? No. He must be the one who introduced cricket. The Frog tried to voice his concern at the recent council meeting. About how some in town were utilizing the baseball fields, baseball, America’s pastime, to play cricket. But all he got was crickets.

  The signs were on the houses as well. The Frog had counted four foreclosures. And now a fifth on one of those old colonials. He shuddered over the rotted shutters. Shook his head over the manor with poor manners.

  The housing crisis only worsened as he wheeled onto Bunns Lane. Where he saw the worst sign of all. Housing Authority. Why the fuck Franco insisted on living right up Woodbridge’s rear, he had no idear.

  The Frog’s immigrant parents had loved the Newark neighborhood they grew up in. But year by year, apartment by apartment, their people left. And others moved in. By the time their own little guy was just a tadpole, they couldn’t walk a block without getting clocked. So The Frog’s family hopped farther south. By the time Newark was burning in the Long Hot Summer of 1967, The Frog’s family had it made in the shade under their maple on Maple. Over on the good side of The Wood.

  But right now, The Frog was looking at a block of apartments that reminded him of age 6. Where thugs slugged his father and mugged his mother. About six.

  So the talking heads on TV that go home to their lofts and send their kids to lofty schools could try to sell The Frog Kumbaya all they wanted. The ones whose locals are good enough to clean their toilets but not good enough to go to school with. Oh it’s not them, it’s the school. What a joke. Swap the entire staff of whatever New York City high school you want with the entire staff from somewhere nice like Nutley. You’ll get the exact same fuckin results. It was enough to make The Frog go nutly. Gee I wonder what the problem is. Let’s flush 50 billion more federal tax dollars down the toilet trying to figure it out. Let’s let the state stick us up for some more tax revenue reallocation to urban areas. No wonder why The Frog needed his harmless little side hustle. Sheesh.

  But in the dusk of that March day, The Frog was actually feeling good. Feeling good about the corner hustler with the high hood and the low pants. Feeling good about the three toddlers being strolled along in a shopping cart. Feeling good about the burly Burberry mama with her new flip phone and food stamps. The one giving The Frog the stink eye as he walked by. Like he was her problem.

  Normally, this would infuriate The Frog. Like that time The Frog put the news on Franco’s ten-year-old TV. Took all of two minutes for the magic box to blow his top. Excuses. Excuses. Excuses. Look at the NBA. Should whites hold an affirmative action march? An appropriation march? Over the hijacking of Doctor Naismith’s game? No. Of course not. It is what it is. Meanwhile, they can appropriate out the ass. Like that group you listen to. The Wang Chung Clan. Guess that attitude makes me the bigot? Huh Franco? Cuz I’m asking that things be truly equal. Not in this day and age. Equality and justice is treating every minority group with kid gloves. And ragging on whites, men, and Christians all you want. They build the most successful countries in the world, and all they get is shit on for it. Look at the local papers. It’s the district’s fault, not their own fault, when their kids don’t cut it. And then the one that does. Hops right into Harvard over the hard-luck valedictorian. Oh but you can’t say nothin. Gotta sit there and clap. Oooh you better say not say nothin. While they make movies called White Men Can’t Jump. Speakin of movies, do me a favor, Franco. That hit movie everyone’s talkin about? Let me know when the sequel comes out. No Country for Christian White Men. And another thing. How the fuck did I even end up here? Defending Christian white men like I’m the fuckin Reverend Billy Graham? Sixteen in the ’60s, I’m caddying at the country club. Sizzlin in the sun. Brownie, they called me. Can you believe that shit? I was a brown kid in a white town. Now I’m a white man in a brown town. And it’s the same fuckin town! And I’m the bad guy either way! He’s funny. The Man up there is funny.

  And what does Franco give The Frog after all that? Nobody’s a group. Everybody’s an individual.

  I give you a Rembrandt of a rant and all you got for me is two sentences? Sure, everybody’s an individual, but we have to hear all about some groups’ problems. We get some groups’ perspectives all day every day. Not me, though. I say a peep, I’m a piece of shit. All I’m askin for is a fair shake. We’re all sittin in the same soup. But that’s not how it goes down when I gotta hire. Not how it goes down in our schools. Not how it goes down when you try to say somethin.

  And what does Franco give him? Two more lousy fuckin sentences. Was Rembrandt a writer? Or a painter?

  Boy, people really loved The Bunns Lane Brawler for his ground and pound. But The Frog? The Frog was most impressed
by his deke and duck.

  The Frog smirked. Normally, the mama now in her new Camry blasting that new song all over the radio—“SOS”—would make The Frog wanna call for one himself. It would usually make him wanna flee The Wood and pack. To somewhere playing Fleetwood Mac. Away from Rihanna and onto “Rhiannon.” But on this day, all the white Christian man had for the hustler, the stroller, and the mad-dogging mama was a smile. All of them were pleasant reminders of what the man had to do. No excuses.

  The Frog headed to Franco’s door. Adjusted the object in his trench coat pocket. Something a little harder to dodge.

  Sweat ran from Franco’s forehead. Fell to his living room rug as he banged out push-ups. “Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four…” Didn’t even hear the knock at the door.

  TJ flew down the stairs. Peeped the peephole. Even at his advanced age, the man at the door put a pit in T’s stomach. The skunk hair. The cavernous eyes. The protruding chin.

  Franco hustled over. “Beat it,” exhaled the exhausted fighter.

  “Great Michael Jackson song.”

  “Just—”

  “—beat it,” sang TJ as he stammered up the stairs.

  Franco reached for the door handle—noticed the TV on mute. Vintage Pac poppin off. Franco shut it off. Flung the remote across the room. What was he gonna do? Scoop The Frog to the acronym THUG LIFE? All he’d hear was “Thug Life.”

  The Frog stepped in. Saw T’s sneaks disappear upstairs. “You playing Mr. Mom over here?”

  “Somethin like that.”