While they fighting over it, a knock on my front door makes ’em both disappear. I pull my sock off and toss it under the bed. I’ll get it later. But I always say that. I wonder who the hell that is. As long as it ain’t no more Clearing House Sweepstakes motherfuckers, or Luisa, I almost don’t care.

“Hold on a minute!” I holler, as I put on a pair of clean sweats and walk out to the door. “It better be important. Who is it?”

“It’s me, Jamil,” a small, crackly voice says, “your son.”

My son. Goddamn. I look like damnit to hell. Shit. My son. What is he doing here? I didn’t even know he knew where I lived. Open the fucking door, Lewis. “Just a minute,” I say, and run to put on a clean T-shirt.

“I can come back later,” he says through the door.

“ No! Don’t go nowhere. Just give me one second! I’m coming!” I run and put on a light-blue T-shirt that ain’t hardly got no wrinkles in it, grab my cigarettes and some matches, and limp back as quick as I can to the door. I open it. I’m shocked as hell when I see a miniature version of myself staring back at me. I can’t believe this. “Hi,” I say. “Come on in.”

Jamil is wearing a black baseball cap pulled down awfully low, so I don’t really see his eyes. His lips look like my lips, and so do his chin. He’s grown. Must be about five eight or nine. And skinny. Can’t weigh more than 140 pounds, if that. I don’t remember ever being this skinny as a kid. I think he’s thirteen. But I ain’t sure. He was a runt the last time I saw him. A lot can change in a year.

“Sit down,” I say. I’m nervous. I wanna hug him but I ain’t sure if I should or not. I don’t know if he wants a hug. He don’t act like it. But, damn, this is my son. Here. In my apartment. He goes over and sits down on the couch, but he jumps back up, holding a bundle of crumpled-up plastic in his hand. Shit, I forgot about Bobbing Betty.

“What’s this?” he asks, as her head drops into view.

“It’s something stupid.”

“Is this one of those inflatable girls?” He’s blushing.

“No. Sometimes I use it going to work, when I’m running late and wanna drive in the carpool lane. I blow her up and sit her in the front seat.”

He lets out a laugh, but I can tell he ain’t buying this story. He slides Bobbing Betty to the other end of the couch and I walk over and sit on the chair across from him. When we look at each other, that’s when I notice his left eye is black. And swole up. “What happened to your eye?”

“I got hit in it.”

“Do it hurt?”

“It’s throbbing.”