“Naw, Simon. Ain’t like that. Even old folk like us need change.

She was just done with the city.”

“How bout you?”

“What I got is all right. Makin sure these college grads slumming with jobs Uptown have heat and water.” He jerks his head back at the corner apartment facing the alley. “Make sure they’re nice and cozy so they can write their Great American Novels.”

Simon laughs. “You ever think of movin back to the Dells?”

“No.”

They stand a few more minutes and then, neither one wanting to dig any deeper or stare at the collapsing house across the street, part without saying good-bye. One-Two retreats back into the Windsor and Simon walks to the curb, where he has to step aside for a college student with a long red ponytail, a bicycle on one arm and a side bag on the other, who wants to get in the door.

He moves and walks toward the Curtis, where Dougan might share some of his stashed booze in the boiler room, where it is empty of human noise, of voices, just the thumping of machinery and the swish of water. So close to the river and they have to pump in the water from outside the city.

18

This is what happened when Simon was seventeen. He skipped school because of a girl and ended up quitting for good. The girl, with more frontage than prospects, was lost in the shuffle, her name forgotten. She is most likely married now, maybe happy, maybe not. Simon cannot remember her name, this hopeless catalyst. He remembers how he felt—how he liked that she and her friends were afraid of him, afraid of his wild difference, in awe of his strength and good looks. Simon remembers he liked it, her wide-eyed almost-fear, but he was gentle, kind in an offhand way.

It was the dead of winter and Simon skipped school to bring her to his house. They walked the twelve blocks from South High, wrapped tight in their winter coats. No one tried to recognize family or friend by face anymore. There were too many layers of clothes, scarves, hats. The whole neighborhood relied on coat color and shape.

They walked the twelve blocks home from school. Neither talked; they were more concerned with getting there.

Once inside they stripped their clothes in Simon and Lester’s room, too greedy for each other’s heat to unbundle at the door. He remembers little of their lovemaking, just that she was hungry and scared, hungry for him, for anything.

She left and Simon didn’t want to trudge back to school. He knew he’d have to walk at least as far as the junior high to pick up Lester from the eighth grade. Instead of leaving right away he curled inside the tangle of blankets, tackling and pinning the girl’s phantom warmth.