Page 21 of Intrepid

“You’re full of it. But that’s what makes you a good kid.” He ran his knuckles over the growing mop of hair atop my head. “Hoping to be back by midnight, if Ray lets me off a bit earlier. Second shift sucks, but they want the job finished this week.” He huffed, glancing out the window beside him. “Do me a favor, huh? Don’t get into construction, like your ol’ man. Find something that keeps you young.”

“Like what?” I hated that he had to work so hard to keep things going. Made me feel helpless sometimes, watching him kill the hours of his life in a thankless job that would one day take its toll on his body.

I once told him I’d quit school and come to work with him, to which he’d promptly told me he’d see hell freeze over before then. I maintained all A’s at school, with perfect scores on all my math tests—a trait he always credited to my mom, for some reason. In my opinion, if she was so smart, she wouldn’t have gotten herself hooked on drugs. Of course, I’d never say that to him. He’d probably blame himself for her addiction, just like he blamed himself for her cheating.

“I dunno. Professional skateboarder. Highly-paid tree climber. Famous daredevil. Whatever you want. As long as you’re happy.” He slanted a smile back at me. “Just make sure you got good insurance. Having to fix your broken bones ain’t been cheap.”

With a snort, I unwrapped the flimsy cheeseburger from its greasy wrapper and shoved a bite into my mouth. “What’d you want to be?” I asked around a mouthful of food.

“Soldier. From the time I was about six years old.”

“Like Uncle Hank?”

Lips pressed to a hard line, he nodded. “Like Uncle Hank. But, actually, it was your grandpop that I looked up to. He was in Vietnam.”

A pause lingered between us, and I picked at the bun of my burger, carefully choosing the next words. “Why don’t you two talk anymore? I mean, you and Uncle Hank.”

He shook his head and hiked an elbow along the back of the torn leather gap that separated us. “Long story.”

“I couldn’t imagine not talking to Eli for years. It’d be weird.” Eli was JoAnne’s son and had been a brother to me since my dad met his mom when I was just eight years old. Having just turned fifteen, he was officially a year older than me, both of us abandoned by one of our parents. In his case, it was his father who’d walked out on their family, only to be thrown in prison shortly after.

Apparently, he’d visited his dad a few times, though I couldn’t begin to imagine why he’d bother. Fourteen years on, and I had no interest in looking for the mom who’d up and packed her shit, before walking out on my dad and me.

Maybe because I still had my dad, and he pretty much made up for two parents. I glanced out the window at the homeless lining the streets along Mount Elliot. We didn’t come from the best place, and I didn’t grow up with much. But for a teenage kid from Detroit, I was happy. I didn’t need much more than my dad.

I think Eli took it harder, since he was a little older when his dad left. Sometimes, he could be a jerk because of it, particularly on the days when his dad should’ve been there, like all the ball games he’d missed, and of course, Eli’s birthdays, when the guy didn’t so much as send him a letter. All that time doing nothing in prison, one’d think a happy birthday was some great effort on his part.

Dad pulled the Ford alongside the curb of Palmer Street, coming to a stop in front of JoAnne’s home. If our neighborhood was bad, hers was downright shitty. Her two-story bungalow sat smack in the middle of a boarded-up crack-house, as Eli referred to it, on one side, and a fire-gutted hellhole on the other. In spite of the weeds growing around her, JoAnne kept her yard trimmed and brimming with flowers, like it existed in some kind of bubble that didn’t belong. Her way of normalizing the dysfunction around her—something I always thought made her a decent mom.

I popped the last of the burger into my mouth and tossed the crumpled paper into the bag. The door of the pickup creaked as I pushed it open, nabbing my duffle and skateboard from the seat beside me.

“Hey, don’t get into any trouble with Eli,” Dad said, gripping my shoulder. “Stick around the house. No wandering off.”

“Okay. I’ll see ya.”

“Jamie … I’m serious.

My full name was Jameson, named after my dad’s favorite brand of Irish whiskey, so I eventually learned. Most called me James for short. My mom had always called me Jamie, and when she left, I guess he felt it was a comfort to pick up the nickname. In truth, though, it never brought me any comfort.

“I love you, kid. Be good,” he added.

“Love you, too.”

On rare occasions, my dad told me he loved me. For the most part, he didn’t do a whole lot of mushy crap, but as an ironworker, he had a thing about making sure he always left for work each day on a good note with me. Probably hanging out on those high beams all day. Two weeks back, one of the guys on the jobsite, a laborer, was down in the trenches, when it caved in on him. His buddy tried digging him out with an excavator and ultimately popped his head clean off. Young guy with a baby at home. The story messed my dad up for a while, making him tear up when he talked about the kid growing up without his dad.

“See you tonight!”

“Yep!” I slammed the door shut behind me and waved him off, waiting until he turned the corner before turning away.

The truth was, I had no intentions of sticking around the house. Just up Palmer, at the corner of Concord, sat the largest abandoned factory in the world—the Packard Plant—a playground of shit to get into for Eli and me. Last time my dad got called in for second shift, the two of us had cut along the railroad tracks and broken in through the back alley that’d long been closed off. We’d spent all afternoon climbing, jumping, and had built a makeshift skate ramp and grind rail out of wood, concrete slabs, and metal scraps we’d found.

We’d been itching to go back ever since.

The unkempt lawn and graffiti sprayed over the particleboard on the house next door caught my attention, as I made my way toward JoAnne’s. It wasn’t unusual to see abandoned homes in my neighborhood, either, but most had a ‘For Sale’ sign out front, and didn’t have friendly phrases, like fuck off, painted across the front of them.

The screen door creaked on his rusted hinges as I threw it back and knocked on the wooden panel.

In seconds, the door flew open to show JoAnne, wearing a pair of jeans, a black tank, and large hoop earrings. Frizzy, auburn hair framed her pale, freckled face and crooked teeth. Not the most attractive woman, definitely not as beautiful as my mom was, but her personality certainly made up for what she lacked in looks.