He was standing in the doorway of Mickey Sturm’s mom’s mom’s townhouse, speaking to Mickey in hushed tones as Mickey’s little half sister, Varissa, crept up behind the couch with her smartphone to spy on them. Any time he had needed advice he knew he could count on Mickey, him having been in trouble every which way, and being 13 to his 12 young years besides. Mickey was abrasive though; a hurtful critic of the human condition, hateful of adults and critical of other kids, living apart in a world of his own—the only person of his peculiar generation it seemed. Alex had barely been able to get the conversation started, what with Mickey snapping at his sister to ‘go eat some pop tarts’ and looking suspiciously over Alex’s slight shoulder into the street.
Alex noticed the great difference in their physical maturity and felt for an instant a sinking feeling in his belly that he was being left behind in ‘boys land’ while Mickey strode off into adulthood. He had never felt unduly small or weak in the past, across the wide span of his fortunate childhood. But now, as his various friends went their own ways into dating, hobbies and drugs, he began to notice that there were a few stay-behinds like him, who did not seem to be morphing into man-children, who remained stubbornly kids. He was not connected with anyone like himself. His friends—mostly a year or two older than he, as he had been pushed ahead due to his high reading level—were pretty much morphing into hairy monsters. Now he had this other huge dilemma, this religious responsibility that Mom and Dad had saddled him with, like he was Saint Patrick or something.
As usual, Mickey did not have to be asked for his opinion. He squinted his green eyes in the early summer morning sunlight and quipped, “Whad da F Yo; whatch yo up in hea whit dis manbeard somebody? Look at dat nigga, pacin’ in da gutta like a starvin’ pit!”
“Look Mickey, my Mom and Dad have adopted him as a foster child—not for the money, they turned that down. His parents aren’t around and he doesn’t have any family. It’s been arranged through the church, and is also going towards my public service requirement for school. This is a good thing. This guy Joe is a good dude.”
Mickey looked aghast as he scrunched his eyebrows at Alex’s new foster brother and grumbled, “You mean the orangotang dat got dat gorilla pregnant with his scary lookin’ ass be up in da joint en she swingin’ from a tree somewhere?”
“Come on Mickey, his name is Joe and his parents were Puerto Rican and Korean. His Dad was killed in Afghanistan and his Mom melted down—institutionalized. He has trouble with his grades and, since I’m in the Gate program, I’ll be his tutor. But we need to get some kind of work for the summer. He’s all itchy; has a hard time sitting in one place, and Dad said something about doing chores; landscaping, you know some kind of work that kids under sixteen can do. You are the most experienced dude I know under sixteen. I figured you would know all about it.”
Mickey squinted from under his blonde eyebrows once again, turned his fitted orange ‘Mofo’ hat back over his neck, shifted uneasily in his unlaced Nikes, and shrugged nonchalantly with the shoulder of the arm that was not holding up his baggy cargo shorts, and drawled, “Bring Yo on up hea inta Mick-Mick’s Joint so we can ged dis shid right.”
Alex was elated and skipped back down across the sidewalk to Joe and grabbed his hairy arm, crudely tattooed in blue ink with various images of Mickey Mouse. Joe was shy and did not talk to Mom or Dad, but he did speak with Alex, well, a little. “Hey Joe, my friend Mickey says we can come in and he’ll give us some job leads. He knows a lot about the neighborhood. You know, I’m pretty much in school, at church, with the band, and at home, so this is all going to be new for me.”
Joe just nodded and proceeded up the walk next to him as Alex briefed him on Mickey’s eccentricities in a whisper. “Mickey is on home detention. He feels like a dummy for getting caught selling weed to a cop. Please try to ignore the ankle bracelet. He does like to talk, so feel free to chime in.”
Joe remained as silent as a cipher as they entered ‘Mick-Mick’s Joint’, which was hopelessly cluttered with his sister’s dolls, toy ponies, party balloons, pretend nail salon station, pretend private jet hair salon, pretend ‘Miss PoPo’ Private Investigation Office, and the indistinct un-played with toys piled in front of the unused fireplace. Their six-and-a-half month old Christmas tree stood brown and dead in the right corner. The closet to the left was overflowing with clothes donated by Social Services. The stairs beyond were cluttered with Mickey’s Mom’s aerobic attire, jewelry, and negligee catalogues. In the dining room—or what would have been the dining room—hip hop videos blared from a 120 inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The gap between the toy heap and the arch was cluttered with dirty clothes. Mickey grabbed the clothes and walked them over to the basement door with knees wide spread to keep his pants from falling to his ankles. As Mickey threw the clothes down the basement stairs he seemed embarrassed at their stares and drawled, “Shiee, ya know Five-O be all ‘bout sneakin’ up dem basement ways, so I keeps dis obstructed.”
Mickey waved them toward him graciously and sauntered into the dinning—TV—room. Varissa ran up to Alex and hugged his thighs with a smile, “Ax, I love you Ax.”
She then looked up at Joe fearfully and ran and hid behind her pyramid of pink ponies. Joe just smiled closed-mouthed and put his hands in his pockets sheepishly as he stepped ahead of Alex and nodded to Mickey. Mickey, one hand in pocket, the other working his remote, slouched on his heels before the massive TV screen and grinned. Joe seemed amazed at the screen that completely blocked the archway into the kitchen beyond, which could only be accessed from the small doorway next to the basement stairs. He knew though, from experience, that one entered that kitchen at their own risk, for Mickey only did dishes on a monthly basis.
Mickey muted the sound and began flicking through the channels, narrating informal job options according to what popped up on the screen. Joe stood with his mouth open watching the images. Alex—considering this a lecture on being a teenager from a veritable professor of the trade—concentrated on the words of sage advice.
“Okay, numba one employment option fo teens. We got dis hea The Wire shid. Slingin’ dope ‘ill jus’ ged a bracelet on yo ankle en ya end up stuck in da house wit da kid sista—sides yo parents would shit dey selves. Naw.
“Now we got dese hea news traffic jams hea where a dude could be a squeegee kid, bud dat shid reprohensabal. Dat some punkass shid. Naw.
“Look ad dis hea animal planet bullshit; people all cruel to dey pets en what not. Could be rescuin’ dem bitchez and adoptin’ dem out ta church families. You Mayberry-White-Like-Me parents would be all about dat shid, but I got no connect dare.
“You see dis hea supa lawn. Rich people like dare grass shote! But dare be a shotage a rich people ‘roun hea. You could take ma mom’s friend’s lawnmower out da storage closet outback en cut lawns fo liddle ole ladies ‘round hea, or, check dis luckrative shid out. You see dat tall skinny turtle-shirt wearin’ mofo bendin’ all sissy like ta ged dat ball outa dat white hole, in a middle of 'is perfect rich-man lawn, while dem rich bitches all ‘roun be clappin’ like he done sometin’? Dat shid is called golf! En you see, back da way, carryin’ dat bag a put-put clubs, dat is a caddy! My Main Men, you two need ta be a caddy team. We got strongass Joe hea a haul dat shit, en smartass Alex ta configure da rich mofo’s swing. Da golf course jus’ ova da way en ‘cross da road.”
Mickey stepped before the screen like he was the most caring teacher in school and shrugged his shoulders in an asking fashion, and switched to his version of Standard English “Gentle men that consultation was free of charge. I do have one favor though. If you manage to get you self a caddy gig, I would like a putting iron and a ball, so I can practice my game up in my joint here. By the time this bracelet comes off, maybe I’ll be able to take my game up the way and hustle some rich men for some change.”
Joe, still not having said a word or having taken his hands from his pockets, shrugged his shoulders and deferred to Alex, who forever seemed to be making decisions for those around him. Alex patted Joe on the arm and did the fist bump with Mickey. “That sounds like a great idea Mickey. Do you mind if we stay for a while and watch this golf channel?”
Mickey smiled his rare engaging smile and motioned to his homemade chairs against the wall behind them, three in all. The low, wall-backed chairs were made of stuffed pizza boxes taped together. The boxes you sat on were stuffed with pennysavers, supermarket circulars, and newspapers. The boxes that served as a backrest were stuffed with Varissa’s toddler clothing, which she had outgrown.
Alex began to muse about Mickey’s innovative qualities just as Varissa clapped toy handcuffs on him and he found himself looking at the yellow suction cup of the dart that was loaded into her ‘Miss PoPo’ pink dart gun. Miss PoPo usually arrested Mickey, who now chuckled from his seat. The odd thing was, Varissa was not looking at Alex, but at Joe, as if she were hinting at what was in store for him should he step out of line.
Joe remained silent. But he did finally smile enough to show his nice white teeth for the first time since they had met, in the pastor’s office, after church, not 24 hours ago.
Alex mused that this was fixing to be the most interesting Monday morning of his young life.
To be continued in The Woods, The Caddy: Part Two
