Tank looks back toward the stockroom for a moment, then gives me a look and a crooked smile before hopping over the counter with the agility of an Olympic gymnast. He grabs a pint of Jim Beam and a pack of Marlboros, the red ones, tucks them both in the front of his waist and pulls his shirt loosely over them. Then he jumps back over to my side, completing the crime in less than ten seconds, too fast for me to utter a single word. He gives a playful elbow to my bicep and smiles.

“What’s that all about?” I ask.

“Huey Dawkins is a prick.” Tank says it calmly. “The guy deserves it,” he adds, again with no emotion in his voice.

Seconds later, the sounds from the back room stop. Huey comes out with a fresh beer and rings up our items. Tank and I pay with loose change, and I’m careful to keep the fifty out of sight. Huey’s spirits lift as he watches the workers approach the entrance. He lights a cigarette and tells us to have a nice day, giving me a nod as Tank walks toward the door.

The autoworkers stream in as we leave, most of them complaining about unfair Japanese trade practices, future layoff notices, and all the white-collar executives who have murdered the American automotive companies.

Passing them, I recognize the familiar smells of metal, grease, and smoke that I associate with Mom and Dad’s arrival home every evening.

Chapter_3

3

A few days after Tank’s theft, I have this heated argument with Dad about why I have to continue playing football, a sport I hate. We’re in the kitchen and Mom’s making dinner, her famous meatloaf and mashed potatoes. She’s yelling at us to stop, which we finally do. Then Dad grabs two cans of beer from the fridge and storms out the front door.

I’m on my way to my bedroom when Mom pulls me aside and sits me down at the kitchen table. She sits across from me. I’m readying myself for another lecture, but when I look at her I see tears in her eyes. Now, Mom’s a tough woman and she rarely lets me see her cry, so watching her like this gives me a lump in my throat.

She wraps her hands around mine and squeezes. I’m still shaking from the fight.

“You have to stop asking to quit, Zach.”

“Why? I’m horrible and I hate it. I hate the practices. I hate the games. I hate it all.”

We stare at each other for a few moments. Rays of late-afternoon sunlight slice through the side window and strike her face. She looks old. This is the first time I’ve ever thought that.