AIDAN SULLIVAN SLID ON THE PATCH OF DECAYING PRODUCE BUT WAS able to stop himself before his head hit the brick wall.
He stood up slowly, trembling, not sure what had just propelled him out of the pile of furniture. Out of the exit hole that Aidan’s body had made emerged a figure, fists clenched. Aidan almost laughed in relief. Even in the dim light he could see it was just a boy that had shoved him, maybe not even as tall as he was.
“What the hell are you lookin’ at, you stupid eedjit!” shouted his assailant. “You nearly got us both hauled off to jail!”
“I had no idea anyone was in my pile of furniture.”
“YOUR pile of furniture! I was there first, obviously!”
“Well, obviously I didn’t know that, or I would have chose another pile of furniture.”
Even in the dim light of the alley, Aidan could see that the boy was poorer than Aidan, which was saying something. At least Aidan had shoes and a spare shirt drying on the line behind his West End tenement—that is, if his mother was well enough and sober enough to get out of bed today and wash their few pieces of clothing. Still, as bad as things were at home, as much as he’d lately had to resort to some money-earning activities that he couldn’t tell his mother about, it unnerved him a bit to see up close, in this boy, how much worse things could get.
Just then, the lamplighter lit the gas lamp at the mouth of the alley. “Hey,” said Aidan, now that he could see more in the light, “I know you. You’re Charles. Charles . . . Wheeler. We were in school together a couple of years ago. Aidan Sullivan, remember me?”
“Well, ain’t this a lovely reunion. Now get the hell outta my alley before I knock you into next week.”
“Yeah, I’ll never forget the time you got put in the corner when the teacher was droning on, and then he heard you say, real quiet-like, ‘Shut yer clam hole, already.’ Oh brother, the boys was laughing all day about that one!”
“Listen, I see a clam hole that needs shuttin’ right now, and I’m gonna shut it for you if you won’t.”
“All right, all right,” Aidan said as he took a step back. He now remembered the epilogue to the clam hole story, where Charles bloodied the nose of one of the laughing boys after school, misinterpreting their laughter as somehow making fun of him, when in truth they were just delighted at any insolence toward their teacher.
“You know what?” said Charles. “I’m late for a very important engagement with my supper. I’m just gonna take my . . .” A look of concern, then anger, washed over his face. He started pawing his way through the trash in the alley.
“Whatcha looking for?” asked Aidan.
“I don’t need no help from the likes of you,” muttered Charles, working through the furniture pile. “Just keep your goddamn hands off my money.”
Aidan glanced down, and right next to his foot was a roll of bills. As he picked it up to give it to Charles, Charles raised his head.
“You bastard!” yelled Charles as he charged.
As they struggled in the alley, Aidan could tell that Charles was all fury and no technique. Aidan defended himself against the rain of blows until he saw his opportunity to throw the one punch he knew how to throw, one he’d actually been trained how to throw. He landed a perfect left hook, and Charles fell back against the pile of furniture.
For a couple of beats, all the two boys did was catch their breath. Charles finally broke the silence.
“There is one thing I do like about you, Sullivan,” he said, and he spit a rotten tooth into his hand. “I like that you’re a southpaw.”