He’s got his jaw clenched and his fists balled up. It’s not that funny, but the kids are laughing so hard, they keep falling over each other.
A dark puddle of oil forms around the edges. “Eat up.”Ī soggy knot of fries goes spilling out between us. “No problem,” the kid says, pouring the fries onto the sidewalk. “Yeah,” Frank says, reaching out his hand. He’s a heavyweight whose lips shine with grease. My mom says nobody but con artists and churchfolk give you things for no reason. There’s a mush of fries in the back of his mouth. So we’re standing on the corner, sulking, when a group of kids walks past us, laughing, pushing, their hands stuffed into the bottom of a greasy paper bag. “But what are we doing in the meantime?”Īfter some thought I say, “I’d probably build a couple schools,” thinking it’s the right thing to say, but by then Frank’s lost interest. Free.”Ī million dollars and he’d eat grilled cheese every day. That way, I could have them deliver food to my house for free every day. You’d probably throw it all away on books. “You know what I’m gonna do with my first million?” Frank says, trying to work another can into the street. I’ve still got the taste of ranch dressing stuck in my mouth. We justtried to eat and run at this Korean place, but they threw us out after the salads. We left as Frank insulted their food, his stomach growling noisily the whole time.
They looked at both of my wrinkled dollars like they were covered in slime and pointed their snooty fingers over our heads, to the door. We’ve been to a pizza place and a wing place and a sub place. We have none, we never have any, but today’s the last straw. He wipes his hands, the way people do when they’re proud of their work. The one he knocks over now rolls halfway into the street, emptying its Styrofoam guts in the bike lane before settling in the gutter. Frank’s still waiting on his growth spurt he needs a running start and hard kick to get the cans over. They’re the old steel ones that sound like a car wreck when they hit the sidewalk. We’re walking down Telegraph, and every time we stop at a corner, he tries to knock over a trash can. If you tell him to cool it, you’ll only make things worse. When Frank’s raging like he is right now, you just have to let him get it out of his system.
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