…Returning from the city, Pessi and I headed towards the front of the bus as it came to a stop. We were pushing each other all the way down the rubbery, ribbed aisle. For some reason, several cocksuckers thought it was their duty to mutter rude comments about how immature we were. The blubbery, bibbed bus driver yelled out, ‘Stop horsin’ around or else yinzer gonna get banned for the rest of the year!’ But after making it out the door and onto the pavement, I tried holding Pessi in place on the last step—the steep step. The bus driver had his right arm stretched out, with his hand resting on the lever for the accordion door. Pessi started juggernauting downward with his shoulder. Suppressing the laughter fluctuating in my gut, I was pushing upward with both hands as hard as I could. We battled and barged til reaching a deadlock—then reluctantly let our hands fall. Pessi remained on the edge of the steep step, bent over and winded, but the bus driver still refused to fold him in with the accordion door! From his elevated seat, he stared at me with eyes that said, 'Scram, you little prick.' I thought about flipping him off—but instead turned away. When I heard Pessi’s shoe scuff the road, I swiftly turned back around and congratulated him on escaping the accordion of death by giving him a precise kidney-shot. Flexing courage to my thoughts, I flipped the bus driver off as a reminder to think twice about passing up another chance to fold Pessi in with the accordion door. In return, he flipped me off then levered the door shut. The growling bus pulled away, leaving behind a malodorous mist.

The stop was two blocks away from my house, Pessi’s house one block in the other direction. Staying silent and looking around bashfully as if he didn’t know me after nearly seventeen years, Pessi started rubbing his hand back and forth over his head. The friction against his short brown bristles was making a rough sandpaper sound. His hazel eyes lowered into a squint as he surveyed our blighted neighborhood. The severe humidity was making everything look fumy. With mischievous intentions still brewing in the air, we remained on the bank of the road.

‘Man, you gadda beedda stupidest faggot alive.’

‘‘N’ why’s ‘at?’

‘Why?’ I repeated for effect. ‘‘Cause ya spell “cat” with a “k” ‘n’ penetrate male orifices: ‘at’s why. Now run home ‘fore I beat dat stupid look off yir face.’

As usual, Pessi smirked at my ruthless sarcasm. His ruggedly handsome face had tanned to a silvery-fawn color, as it tended to do during the peak of summer, while all year round it retained a solemn glare like James Dean. (A mid-face spitting-image of the guy.) But whenever I could find a way to break his chiseled cast and bring out “the smirk”—that reluctant but approving smirk—I was content…for a moment.

‘Don’t make me fuckin’ do it.’

‘Keep wishin’, V.’

‘Ehh, wishin’s for hippies; I make my shit happen, you cum-guzzlin' hussy…’ As I carried on with my mock machismo, I was doing everything in my power to get Pessi fired up again—but I couldn’t make it happen. So I leaned in closer, a bit over his shoulder, and in a serious-like manner said, ‘Well look: if you wanna do some yey tanight, caw me after supper.’

‘Mmm, we’ll see, but prahblee not. Think I’m done hangin’ out with midgets.’

That was my cue to uppercut his tough gut then push him back at the shoulder. Seeing that he didn’t plan to punch or push back, I said, ‘Fine ‘en; I’ll do it all myself—you fuckin’ faggot.’

Pessi turned around indifferently, and with hands shoved in pocket, walked away like a rebel without a cause.

In the other direction, I headed down Bullitt Avenue, kicking along a golfball-sized rock. The sun was fully unmasked, burning with pernicious intentions; all the clouds were in hiding or gone to ashes. The weather had been the same for two weeks: the last time Mrs. Rain had visited; even Dr. Overcast was currently on vacation. In a matter of a few steps, my plain black t-shirt was drawing in extra waves of heat from which an ominous twinge began pricking a small spot in my chest. From that, I quit kicking along the rock; it was enough to keep having to wipe the sweat from my face. To my left, three little black girls dressed in all-white were enduring the heat much better as they took turns running underneath the umbrella spray of a sprinkler; they were singing a joyful song about “a silly fish,” and the sound of the spray was giving the song a smooth and consistent melody. Next to them, the Hughes had a new sign posted in their front yard, almost right on the road. I took a closer look…a tax sign letting us neighbors know that if the Hughes didn’t pay up soon we could buy their house at a state auction. Since I was good friends with Mr. and Mrs. Hughes’ son, Eddie, I thought maybe I should buy their house then give it to Eddie for his birthday; I could even put an oversized bowtie on the roof. Next block down—my block—a shirtless Mr. Klugman (like a hero in the heat) was cutting his small front lawn with a push-mower. Laboriously, he managed to wave, and I waved back.

When I came upon my house—the jaundiced one-story box in the middle of the block—Aunt Stella was rolling Uncle Alfonse out the front door. Hunched over in his wheelchair, Uncle Alfonse’s mottled face was drooping down towards his lap; there didn’t seem to be a set of legs wrapped up inside the floppy gray rayon. Up above, I noticed his umber liver spots were beginning to populate his jowls and dance up his bald head like a corybantic breakout. Wheeling around seventy-six years, Uncle Alfonse was my paternal great uncle and a second-generation Abruzzese. I figured they must’ve been visiting Ma because Aunt Stella, like many others, didn’t like my father. But no one really liked her either.

For whatever reason, Uncle Alfonse was yelling and complaining, mostly in English but also throwing in some Nonsense. Aunt Stella, a decade younger, was trying to appease him by slapping him friendly on the shoulder every time he swore. Moaning, he was swatting her and her synthetic-blond beehive away with that irascibility unique to disgruntled ol’ gimps. No one really knew what was wrong with him. I think Aunt Stella had pressed the doctors to diagnose him with something juicy so she could legally dispose of him. But the doctors said most likely the early stages of natural amnesia—at worst, senile dementia. Based on the things he would blurt out, I assumed Tourette’s. Perhaps even faking it as a last resort to express his discontent.

When he looked up at me, still some distance away on the sidewalk, he suddenly grabbed the left wheel with both hands and tried rocking himself out of the chair.

‘Stop ‘at, Alfonse!’ yelled Aunt Stella, prying his hands from the wheel.

Struggling to turn around in his geri-generic wheelchair, he said, ‘Stop inna name of love, woman!’ (She ignored him.) Then he looked straight at me. ‘Who’s ‘at?’ he said with an eructal cough that sounded like a colonel’s command: Hump that! ‘Who’s ‘at?!’

‘Whaddaya mean who’s ‘at? It’s Vincent!’

Aunt Stella knew that I hated being called Vincent; therefore, just like every other time she struck a chord, I sung out her misnomer. ‘Salutamu, Aunt Fella. (Uncle A.) Yinz headin’ dahn da the morgue today?’

‘No, smartass. We’re goin’ home ‘cause yir faaahder—’ She flashed an exasperated rosy face; from the jerk of her flabby neck, I could taste the shaken mist of hairspray and cheap perfume. ‘You know him! Bein’ a drunk idiot like always!’

‘Awesome,’ I whispered to myself. I began surveying our small sere yard. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I didn’t really like her, and he was too much to deal with in the heat, so I sidestepped them and headed towards the door.

‘Who’s ‘at?’ Uncle Alfonse asked again. ‘Who’s ‘at?!’ She rolled him down to the car as they continued quibbling over who I am or might be.

            Then I walked inside, deep into the trenches…