Jack Dunphy drove his 16-year-old fist into the face of the kid who was sitting on him and felt the nose give way under his knuckles. Hot red drops freckled his face and then the weight was gone from his chest. He got up and ran. He didn’t run home. He ran to the tracks that bisected his little hometown and, when a freight train finally slowed at the Willow Street crossing, scrambled into an empty boxcar. His father had warned him: next time he was caught fighting, it was back to military school. He took his father’s warning seriously, but at five feet nothing, with acne so bad that his face was more pus than skin, pacifism wasn’t an option.
He looked around himself. Every face was dutifully trained on the boss, who droned on, enthralled with his own voice. Everyone called Hank Lenard “Lenny Disco”—though not to his face, of course—because (1) all of his clothes were 100 percent synthetic, and (2) disco sucks. Attendance at these weekly meetings was mandatory, and Jack had been attending them since he’d started at Lenard & Frey, a mail-order outfit, two years earlier. After the first three or four he’d devised a little game to make them more entertaining. Every week he’d ask Lenny Disco a question. They’d started out as fairly sincere inquiries about the company’s outdated business model, but lately they’d taken on a surreal tone.
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do about that, Jack. After all, print is—”
To celebrate his 18th birthday, Jack decided to treat himself to a jar of pickles from the corner market. He picked up a jar of big dills and waved to the clerk as he strode past the register and out the door. The clerk dashed after him. Jack let him keep pace for awhile, then increased his speed and left the clerk wheezing behind. He took a corner too fast, and the jar of pickles flipped out of his hand and kept on going. He tried to grab it as it sailed away from him, tumbling end over end. It exploded against the curb.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
He looked back up the street. He didn’t see the clerk but decided to keep moving anyway. They might’ve called the cops. He grabbed two pickles, wiped them on his pants, and walked off. Usually he boosted cheese. It was easy to hide and had plenty of protein. Sometimes he’d buy a soda or something so he wouldn’t look suspicious. Once he’d stuffed a pepperoni down the front of his pants so the checkout girl would think he was well endowed. The memory made him laugh out loud.
Littlebit slipped something into his pocket and looked up.
Littlebit was old enough to be Jack’s father. He told everyone he lost his leg in Vietnam but, in fact, he lost it to diabetes. Jack first noticed Littlebit’s fake leg while bending down to attack a pink wad of gum with his little trowel. He could see Littlebit’s fading footprints on the damp linoleum, and the left one was always lighter than the right. Littlebit didn’t put as much weight on his prosthetic leg as he did on his real one, so his gait looked like it was driven by an elliptical cog.
