The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  “Huh,” said Franco. His brain the one now adding a wrinkle.

  “I think what’s important is…” TJ shook his head in search of the right word. “Intent.” TJ looked down, felt like a real dork using the fancy word in front of Dad.

  “Nah. I get ya.”

  “I think you always had good intentions,” said son. “And it’s all gonna make sense. When you knock The Prince senseless.”

  Franco took a breath of the frozen Jersey air. “About that,” he said with an exhale that could deflate Earth. He nodded for T to hop in the pony.

  Franco turned the key. The pony wheezed and kicked. He turned it again. She wheezed and kicked. And wheezed and kicked. He tried again. But she just couldn’t get her legs under herself. After 10 years and 200,000 miles all across America, Franco’s pony only had one trip left. To the glue factory.

  Across town out on Route 1, another pony had plenty of kick. Its driver having had plenty of liq. He ran a red light and ran his whole carriage around a telephone pole. A pole that protruded into the exact spot a passenger had sat earlier that night. Until his father found said passenger in a motel and dragged him into another mess entirely. At least the kid would live to tell about that one, though. The driver, meanwhile, was laid up in the hospital. His skull split so badly, the repair procedure included tightening in some literal screws. To go along with the driver’s figurative loose ones.

  TRACK 12. WARNINGS

  FRANCO WALKED THE TRACKS as his head ran Biggie’s track. Franco ready to die as Biggie spit from Ready to Die. “Suicidal Thoughts.” Biggie waxin about burnin in hell. And how he’d fit right in. Maybe Franco would see him soon.

  Franco shook his head as he forged ahead. A forest of trees on each side. Towering over him. Whispering in the wind. Franco finally ready to do what Julie had done five years before. What she would’ve always done. Put their boy first no matter the fallout.

  Franco tracked the full moon above. The Man looked down with particular pity. Maybe it was too little, too late. Franco pulled up the hood on his black hoodie from high school. The one with the torn collar and lost strings. The one that fell over the gat needling his back. Franco shook his head over the realization that he had learned more about religion from rap songs than from CCD. Shit, he didn’t even know what CCD stood for. But he knew those lines. From “Suicidal Thoughts.” About why be a misfit in heaven? When you could do street shit in hell 24-7. About how square shit is whack. How he’d rather wear black. If eternal empathy was God. Then Biggie was Franco’s.

  Even if Franco remained on Earth past evening, he wasn’t long for the world. Once he cut ties with The Frog and dumped the upcoming fight, he’d be livin on a prayer like his boy Bon Jovi. Needing a Hail Mary like his pal Pac. And Franco was well aware of how Pac ended up as the bell from “Hail Mary” tolled in his head. Fuck. Shoulda picked Pac. Franco shook his head. Coulda had a spot reserved at Thugz Mansion. Instead, he was gonna be burnin in hell with his boy Biggie. Fuckin Franco. Couldn’t even get his God right.

  The man in black crossed Rahway Ave without even looking. His eyes on his flip phone. On a TEXT from Joey Yo: All systems go. Almost got cracked by a hauling Mack. It never even saw the phantom in black.

  Franco stalked through the first of two church grounds older than America. Two-stepped over tombstones over 200 years old. Winged skulls etched atop them. Death’s-heads. The Man on the Moon peeked through the trees, went out of his way to shed a little extra light on them. Franco looked them all in the eye. Had to find Thomas Nelson the First. Partly to pay respect. Partly to rub the tombstone in hope that some of that charmed First Family of Woodbridge aura would rub off on him. Help him avoid being rubbed out. Franco ran his hand over The Third’s tomb. Coach Nelson’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather who was so great-great-great, he died in the Revolution after being a revered reverend. Franco then reached the tombstone of Nelly the First. Took a knee. Crossed himself. Then crossed out of the church.

  The changing season’s weather whipped swirling winds. An empty Budweiser can rolled toward Franco. Then rolled away before he got the chance to kick it. The Man tracked Franco through budding branches. Had to keep a spotlight on the star of the play. Probably a tragedy, Franco figured as he walked through another patch of ancient tombstones. Nobody’s a killer until they have to. The Frog turned out be Nostrafuckindamus. Cuz now Franco had to. He marched past tilted tombstones stuck into the ground like midget surfboards. One riddled with Redcoat bullets. Fired from a Brown Bess musket. Back when the colonists said fuck it. Franco had similar feelings as he continued toward the ass end of the church.

  A rat ran one way and a skunk scurried the other as The Frog stood still. Hands entrenched in his trench coat pockets. Standing under an emergency exit light casting a red tint.

  As Franco headed for The Frog, he took one last glance back. Peeped the lot of the sub shack. Made out the old-ass Explorer in the back. He then rolled up with his black hoodie up. A Grim Reaper. That pulled a heater. Held it in his hand as he laid out his plan. “I’ma tell you this once. And once only. I’m out. When my boy almost gets killed, I’m out. And before you go threatenin me or anyone in my family, let me make somethin real clear.” Franco put the .45 to The Frog’s forehead. “I will kill you.”

  The Frog stood as still as a pipid on a lily pad. Clenched his underbite. Hazel to hazel with Franco. The Man on the Moon illuminating Franco’s. The exit light tinting The Frog’s.

  Franco mashed the gun into The Frog’s chest. “Take your fuckin gun.” A Hamiltonian gesture to defuse the latest Jersey duel. Franco Hamilton then did an about face. Didn’t get more than a pace—

  “You’re a mangy fuckin mutt, you know that?” croaked Amphibian Burr.

  Franco turned.

  “I tried to give you a family. A community. A career.” Amphibian Burr cocked the gun. “But you’re shit. A Bunns Lane bastard. Bunns Lane bred. And you’re gonna be Bunns Lane dead—”

  Only the Hamilton of Hoodbridge had learned from his history. He nodded to Burr’s midsection. An infrared dot danced on The Frog’s chest. Like it was bopping to an old 45. Back in 1965. The dot then nae nae’d up his neck. Cha-cha’d around his chin. Macarena’d up his mug. Settled on his forehead and did a little ditty. Like it was Diddy. Dancing to Paperboy’s “Ditty.”

  Hoodbridge Hamilton laid it out. “You fuck with me? Now or tomorrow or any time. I’ve already paid someone to fuck with you.” Franco stepped over—snatched the fuckin gun back from The Frog. Pressed it in his fuckin face. In the nook between cheek and nose. “I will widow your poor wife. Leave her with nobody. You sick fuck. Sucking me in as a surrogate son.” Franco wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Ready to waste the father figure.

  “I wasn’t gonna shoot you,” croaked The Frog. His front limbs raised.

  Franco pressed the gun harder into the old man’s face. Then harder yet. Then. “You’re already dead.” Franco dropped the gun.

  The .45 fell to The Frog’s feet. He’d never admit it, but a shiver ran down his spine. Burr.

  The changing season’s winds blew Franco one way and The Frog the other.

  The Frog turned and shared some parting thoughts. Like he was Andy fuckin Rooney. “When The Show chews you up and spits you out. Just like the fat cats in this country are doing to the rest of us. Then maybe you’ll see.” The Frog raised his voice as the two continued to part. “You got nothin. Not even God!” Nothing from Franco. Of course not. “It’s written right on our money, ya know!”

  Franco turned to The Frog without breaking stride. “I got plenty of God. But I got the back of your nickel, too.”

  The Frog peeled his trench coat aside, pulled out his lucky 1955 nickel. Turned it to tails. E PLURIBUS UNUM. Whatever the fuck that meant. Maybe he’d look it up on Diwali Day. He continued on his way.

  The Frog was Catholic, but he couldn’t agree more with the Protestant church he walked away from. Its white to
wer rose from its white chapel. A middle finger unfurled from a fist. Flipping off the flipped town. But the farther the Rolling Stones fan got from his Street Fightin Man, the closer he got to his 19th Nervous Breakdown. The Frog stalked the ave as rabid as Mick Jagger stabbed with a dagger. Fuckin car was in the shop. And worse. Those tones. From the Rolling Stones. They rolled in his head like stones. The man hearing “Get Off of My Cloud” coulda swore he smelled something. The man walked his town looking for the smell like it was Laci Peterson. Was it the creek below the bridge? Nope, it was high tide. Was it the homeboys crowding outside Krauszer’s? Smoking Newports with ankle long shorts. Or the Ricans running their kids in from their Accord at this insane hour? Or the Asian with his two hands on the fire hydrant? Doing squats like the ave was a 24 Hour fuckin Fitness. Or. Was it the white trash taking out the trash? Barefoot and braless. Fuckin A. All the good ones got away. Didn’t they.

  The Frog took a big whiff of his whole town right then and wished to the smog-hidden heavens that he too had caught the first white flight to Tinton Falls. Wished that he too had left his brick town for Bricktown. So mad he didn’t move to Howell, he could howl. The Man on the Moon dared him to have at it. The ready to howl honcho was suddenly certain his hair was overgrowing. Its dye dying in an instant. And those fuckin tones! From the Rolling Stones! They rolled in his head like stones! He wanted to say goodbye to “Ruby Tuesday.” Wanted “Wild Horses” to drag him away. Wondered why “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” The daggered Jagger staggered. Past the refinery. Maybe that was the smell. Past the dumpsters of the apartments that departed his park. Maybe that was the smell. Past the reeds of the marsh. Just them. He hoped.

  The mad man caught a second wind as he wound onto his block. Against his chest, the Glock. His heart of stone as he heard “Heart of Stone.” He prayed to God to give him shelter as he heard “Gimme Shelter.” He jumped like Jack Flash as he heard “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” He dashed down the middle of his road. Closed in on his red door. At the end of his cul-de-sac. Hearing. “Paint it Black.”

  The Frog flew into his bathroom. Phew. His hair was still ship shape. He looked down at his 1955 nickel. In his hand the whole way. He thumbed the five-cent piece that reminded him of five-cent candies. Five-and-dimes. Five years old. His good old nickel from the good old days. He looked down at the man on heads. His very own TJ.

  Yet the man with the dark hair with the white streak was still unsettled as he stood before his bathroom mirror. The putrid smell remained.

  The swirling wind had wound Franco another way. Rap and religion still on his mind. Only Pac’s ominous “Hail Mary” had hailed to “Only God Can Judge Me.” Franco’s steps matched the upbeat beat.

  Then Franco’s roll slowed as he caught up with his bro. Good ole Joey Yo. Franco gave his Boricua goomba a handshake-hug aside his old-ass Explorer.

  “You like that shit? How I put the dot on his forehead?” asked Joey as he poked his finger to his own forehead. “I knew that would piss him off.”

  Franco grinned. “His chin protruded past Port Reading.”

  “Shit, he had a chin to China!”

  Franco and Joey Yo lit up with laughter.

  Joey Yo pulled a flask from his hoodie pocket. “Goddamn that was nerve-wracking, though.” Joey sipped. “I woulda blasted his ass.”

  Franco shook his head, gave Joey Yo a fist bump. “No doubt, brotha. No doubt.”

  “It’s fuckin…warm all the sudden,” noted Joey.

  Franco pulled his hood down. The Man on the Moon teased sparkles out of the boy with kaleidoscope eyes. “Look at this. Out on the backstreets past midnight. With the warm weather n all,” floated the Beatles fan.

  “Like when we used to sneak out,” Joey added.

  “I didn’t have to sneak.”

  “These warm nights after being caged up for six months. Had to hop out a window.”

  “Had to step over my stepdad.”

  The best friends had a hearty laugh.

  “You ready to roll?” Joey made for the Explorer.

  Franco sucked in the warm wind. After months of rain, snow, and hail. “Fuck it. Wanna walk?”

  Joey sucked in some warm wind himself. “Fuck yeah, I wanna walk. We can egg Stan Macha’s house like it’s Mischief Night.”

  “Pop into Matt Pinto’s pool.”

  “Bang on Bethany Devers’ back door.”

  “Jump on Jamie Tran’s trampoline.”

  “Throw a banger in your basement.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “The good old days, son!”

  The good old boys who looked nothing like good old boys laughed like they did as little boys. They beat feet and slapped backs down Barron Ave like they were entering intermediate all over again.

  “It’s funny. Senior year. ’93,” began Franco as they slowed to a stroll. “And we were already listenin to the Wu talk about the good old days.” Franco carried on with a hop in his step. Feeling loose. The ankle warmed up from the weather and the walk.

  “Huh?”

  “Ya know. That one slow track on 36 Chambers.”

  “Oh yeah yeah yeah. The one with the old soul singer. What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Franco. “I thought it was Raekwon’s mom.”

  A laugh burst out of Yo. He threw an arm around his bro. “Oh I know. ‘Can It Be All So Simple.’”

  “Right. Like, was it really better back in the day? Or do we just remember it that way?” wondered Franco as they walked past their old school.

  Across town, a man was such a wreck, he put on a record. Poured himself a Jameson at his portable bar. Slouched into his shag couch. Slipped out of his trench coat. Listened to the soul singer singin about the good old days.

  As the 45 spun in the man’s temple, he put a .45 to his temple. He looked to his walls of framed photos. His first day of first grade with the missing tooth and the tin lunch box. Eighteen in a tank top with muscled arms. Leaning on his muscle car. His wedding picture. Him and his wife looking right into the camera. All eyes and smiles. Eager for the adventure ahead. Of course it was better back then. The man cocked the hammer back. The Glock ready to strike midnight.

  The man’s shaking hand managed a drink of the Jameson as he looked to framed photos from down the docks. To the young man with both hands raised from the bow of a behemoth. So much fuckin better.

  The man’s index finger pressed firm against the trigger. As he saw himself holding a most beautiful figure. His baby niece. Wrapped in fleece. Being squeezed by her godfather. The godfather who had a charming chin. When it donned a grin. This world has gone to shit! SHIT! The man eyed a team photo from his Little League coaching days. Boy, did he teach those boys. Standing tall beside them. Arms behind his back. A soldier of his community. Tears ran down the man’s eyes. As the lady on the record waxed about the good old days. He squeezed the handle of the Glock. It’s all shit! He clenched his eyes for the final goodbye. I’M SHIT!—

  Wait. What was that? What the soul singer just said. We just forget the pain of the past? Only remember the good? The man opened his flooded eyes. Looked to the record. The soul singer was singing right to him. He put the gun down. He’d have to play the song back. Figure the meaning of the track.

  The man had a few more sips as he re-played the Pips. He looked in his parlor mirror. Saw the tracks of his tears. Which reminded him of “Tracks of My Tears.” Ooh, now that was a song. Back when they knew how to make music. The man readied some more records. He was gonna have himself a little going away party.

  The man lit a cigarette and ran “Tracks of My Tears.” Had a little smoke as he listened to Smokey. The man then let the cig linger on his portable bar. Was moved to groove about his parlor. He wiped away his tears. Saw the full moon through a space in the blinds. The man looked up at The Man. Sipped his whiskey neat. He had to admit. The Man was pretty neat.

  “Marie! Come have a drink with me!” />
  The man parted the blinds of his bi-level. The Man invited himself in. Illuminated the parlor from red to pink. “You gotta see the moon, Marie! It’s a beautiful fuckin moon!” He gazed up at The Man. “He’s watchin over us! Just like when we were kids!”

  Marie hurried out in curlers. Her tight robe restricting her frantic stride. “WHAT!” she shrieked. “It’s the same fuckin moon!”

  “You don’t understand, Marie! Smokey’s on. Dance with me!” The man swayed his hips and snapped his fingers. Like he was a member of Smokey’s Miracles. After all, he was alive. It was a fuckin miracle.

  “What is going on with you?” asked Marie.

  “Smoke! The good kind!” The man smothered the lit cigarette into his portable bar.

  “Your bar top—”

  “I’ll fuckin fix it tomorrow. Take me five minutes.” The Miracle opened his arms. Snapped his fingers. Swayed his hips. “Dance with me, Marie!”

  Marie shook her curlered head. “I need something slower. How about…‘Time Is on My Side’?”

  “Are you kiddin me, Marie!” dealt the dancing man.

  “But you love the Roll—”

  “That’s the last fuckin song on Earth I wanna hear!” The dancing man circled. Wooed his woman. “I need something, Marie. Something with more…soul,” said the man with a fist to his chest. “I got it,” he noted with a raised finger. He grooved over to his 45s. Like it was 1965.

  The man dropped the needle on a new song. Dropped all his worries. Took his lady in his arms. Husband and wife had eyes and smiles as big as the ones in their wedding photo. They danced like it was that day. When they danced to the same song with glee. “Stand by Me.” The Man cast a spotlight just like the one they had that day. They danced surrounded by their framed photos. Surrounded by their friends and family. Just like they did that day. Back in the day. Marie rest her head on the man she married. Like it was the day they married.