“Yeah. He threw a drink in my face. The girl said I should mind my own business.”

“So you hit him?”

“No. I said thanks, I needed a shower. That was that. The two of them left. I finished my drink and headed out of the bar like fifteen minutes later. But they were still on the street, screaming at each other. I tried to ignore it. I was waiting at the bus stop, and I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“But?”

“But he hit her, Roscoe. He just hauled off and slugged the woman in the face. I lost it. I went over there and threw him to the ground. I got down on my knees and began beating the hell out of him. The two of us went at it until the police got there.”

Roscoe didn’t say anything for a while.

He eased the car to a stop, because Montrose was closed ahead of us. Overnight construction was underway. Weird, when you add up all the things that make a difference. The little choices that change everything. If some bureaucrat had picked a different night for the construction, Roscoe would be alive. If we’d taken Irving Park east instead of Montrose, he’d still be alive.

More than anything, if I’d kept my cool outside that bar, my friend would still be alive.

Roscoe turned onto a leafy side street a couple of blocks from Horner Park. We drove past matchbox homes and old three-story apartment buildings. Cars were parked on both sides, blocking our view. He drove slowly and kept looking over at me, focused on me and my story. He should have been paying more attention, but it was the middle of the night on a deserted street.

“I’m him,” I said.

“Who?”

“My father.”

Roscoe sighed as he pulled up to a stop sign. The only thing that I remembered from that intersection was a house for sale at the corner. A gold stone apartment building with a sign mounted on the lawn.

CHANCE PROPERTIES

I remembered it because it made me think about chance. Chance ruled everything. Chance determined who lived and who died.

“I’m him,” I said again. “My father lost control that night. That’s what happens to me.”

Roscoe took a loud breath. I had no way of knowing it was practically his last one. “Why?” he asked me.

“What?”

“Why did you attack that man? Why did you go after him?”

“Because he hit that girl.”

“Exactly.”

Roscoe eased his foot onto the accelerator and started across the intersection. He was distracted, and he forgot to look right. If he had, he would have seen the headlights of the truck coming down the one-way street and barreling through the stop sign. I was off in my own world and didn’t see it either.

“Buddy, you’re not your father,” Roscoe told me.