Well, Inglewood was history as far as he was concerned! Tomorrow, they were splittin’, rain or no rain.

Hank scratched himself again, turned on the TV.

Same old junk—this time the girl was gettin’ porked by an old guy who had to be at least forty, and a shvartze. The shvartze was a gorilla, his boobs bigger than the chick’s. He also had a gorilla-sized dick, but he couldn’t keep it hard.

All those inches and he couldn’t keep a boner.

He shut off the TV, bored, not even horny.

It was a long time since he’d had any action. He was sick of doin’ it himself, but at least he was clean. He had sent Nick-O to buy skins yesterday—hoping to phone up a service girl tonight. But instead, Nick-O came back all whiny, sayin’ that he couldn’t do it without lookin’ suspicious.

Then Hank told him: You ain’t gonna do my shit, what the hell did I need you for?

That made the kid stop and think a minute.

Then Nick-O said in that same whiny voice that the druggist wouldn’t sell it to him even if he asked ’cause he just looked too young.

Hank smiled, remembering how like patient he was as he told him what to do.

Since when did I say you have to buy it, Nick-O?

Maybe that’s what was taking the kid so long.

He finished the Chink food and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the garbage.

Place was a sty, but in a weird way, he was at home in sties. After the divorce, the old lady fell apart. Everything just fell to shit.

Twenty-five moves in three years. He’d counted every goddamn one of them. The old dickhead always givin’ them money to move into the places, but never enough money to pay monthly rent. Always kicked out ’cause no one wanted freeloaders. Three, four months later, she’d call up the dickhead again, tellin’ him the same story over and over. She couldn’t find a job without skills and she couldn’t go to school because she couldn’t drive and it was too hard to take the bus.

The dickhead would remind her that she used to teach in the yeshivas.

But that was before the headaches started. And it hurt her eyes to type on computers and strained her voice to do telephone sales. And the world was a scary place when you’re alone and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Then the dickhead would forward another check—made out to him, not the old lady.

They were always made out to him, but like a jerk, he always gave them to the old lady ’cause at the time, he didn’t know better.

A week later, they’d stuff their belongings into trash bags and move again.