No Such Thing as a Free Ride (2 page)

I was surprised to find Alphonso teaching a class at the gym, especially since Nick owns a martial arts studio on Spring Garden. Turns out my uncle and Alphonso have been friends for years. They met at what my mom used to refer to as a
social club
(when Paul and I were within earshot) but in actuality was
The Clink
.

“Your uncle asked me to do him a favor,” Alphonso told me. “He’s one of those civic minded do-gooders.”

Well, at least one of them learned the error of his ways. The jury’s still out on Alphonso.

Although the gym is technically for boxing, Frankie’s “significant other,” Carla, talked him into offering a free self defense class geared toward local teenage girls. She said she thought it was important for them to know how to take care of themselves and, judging by the hormonal gymnastics of local teenage
boys
, it seemed like a good idea.

I went off to spar with a kid from the neighborhood named Jimmy the Rat, an unfortunate moniker he picked up last year after he dropped a doughnut down the sewer, fished it out and ate it. I wasn’t really crazy about sparring with Jimmy, but there aren’t many boxers out there who’re short enough for me to pair up with. I’m five feet two if tip toes count.

Alphonso was just finishing up his class when I got through. I was sweaty, slightly smelly and my hair, mouse brown and poker straight on a good day looked like I’d tangled with an electrical outlet and lost. He took the opportunity to comment on how nice I looked. I just prayed he didn’t snap a picture on his cell phone to send to Nick, wherever the hell that was.

Nick took off for parts unknown, about three months ago, under mysterious circumstances. As virtually everything about Nick is a mystery, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. What did surprise me is how much it hurt. How much it still did.

The girl in black was just leaving. I looked over at her and smiled. She slid her eyes downward and took off, a grimy backpack hanging from her shoulder. As she turned, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo nestled under her left ear. I think it was some sort of bird. It was hard to tell, as it looked like it had been drawn by a singularly untalented six-year old.

Frankie came up next to me and caught me staring at her.

“She’s been to every class,” he said, “but she never gets any closer than the gate. I tried to talk to her once and she told me to ‘fuck off.’ Nice, huh?”

I laughed. “Well, what did you say to her?”

My uncle shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Something really offensive like, the class is free and you’re welcome to join in.”

“Maybe she was just having a bad day.” I stared at her retreating back. By the looks of her, I bet she’d had a lot of them.

Alphonso walked me to my car. “How come you’re not using Nick’s truck?” he asked.

“I told you when you dropped it off, I don’t need it. I’ve got a perfectly good set of wheels right here.” I patted the hood for emphasis and the side view mirror fell off.
Crap.

I caught the mirror before it hit the asphalt and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “So, how is Nick, anyway? Where’d you say he was again?”

“I didn’t.” Alphonso grinned.

I sighed and he cut me a look that bordered on pity.

“You’re jonesin’ for him, Alexander.”

“I am not!”
Oh god, I so am!

Alphonso peered at me over the tops of his sun glasses and shook his head. “Whatever you say, chica.”

Unhh!

*****

Having worked out at the gym for an hour—okay, technically, it was only forty minutes, the last twenty were spent faking an ankle injury to get out of doing “reps”—I decided I deserved a treat, so I stopped at the Acme on the way home and picked up a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I guess I could’ve bought just one, but they were on sale, and I figured it would have been fiscally irresponsible of me not to take advantage of a bargain. As an American, I feel it’s my duty to stimulate the economy.

I got home just in time to grab the only available parking space on my street. My house is the last one on a block of rowhomes built in the ‘50’s. I live in a mostly Italian neighborhood where kids grow up being able to spell the word “macaroni” before they can utter “mama.”

My mother was born and raised in South Philly in a Roman Catholic household.

My Jewish father grew up a few blocks away. They met one Yom Kippur when my dad sneaked out of my Bubbie Heiki’s house to stuff his face at a local bakery. My mom was there buying dessert for her family’s dinner that evening and they met over the cannoli counter. The rest, as they say, is history.

My octogenarian neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, was waiting for me on the porch as I got out of the car with the ice cream. She had just finished hanging a moth-eaten five foot wide American flag from her front door. Smaller flags graced either side of her azalea bush. That was going to pose a problem for my dog, Adrian, who liked to pee there when Mrs. Gentile wasn’t looking.

Philadelphians are big on ornamental holiday displays. Valentine’s Day is greeted with the same fanfare as Christmas or Halloween. My neighbor considers it a mortal sin (or at the very least an affront to the neighborhood) not to participate in the festivities. I felt a fight coming on, as I had not yet decorated my side of the porch with the requisite Fourth of July adornments.

“Hey. Girlie.” It’s a little game we play. Mrs. Gentile acts like she’s forgotten my name and I pretend I don’t want to push her down the porch steps.

I sighed deeply and smiled. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Gentile.” I held out the ice cream to illustrate the terrible rush I was in to get it into the house before it melted, only Mrs. Gentile thought I was offering it to her and she made a grab for it. I wasn’t quick enough and she latched on for dear life.

“I prefer pistachio,” she grunted, and before I could think of a snarky response, she turned and walked back into the house taking Ben and Jerry with her.
Unhh!

I hopped back into the car and drove down to the 7-Eleven. They were out of everything except Drumsticks and, while I’m not all that picky, I do have
some
standards. I ended up driving practically into town before I could find another two for one special.

On the way back to my car I spied a large group of teenagers hanging out in the parking lot. They ranged in age from about fourteen to twenty, mostly boys with a smattering of girls, all with enough metal facial piercings to shut down an airport. They all had backpacks, jammed full of unimagined crap. One girl carried a Pit Bull puppy in her arms. They were loud and obnoxious, hassling people for spare change as they went into the store.

A few people stopped and dug into their pockets for change. Most got that fixed stare in their eyes, acting as if the teens were invisible, and kept on walking.

Pretty soon the store manager came out and yelled at the kids to “get the hell out of there,” but I guess they didn’t
want
to get the hell out of there, because no one made a move to leave. Well, no one except the manager, who apparently had anger control issues. He disappeared back into the store, returning thirty seconds later with a .38 caliber pistol and a mouthful of curse words that would make a drunken sailor blush.

My first instincts were to
get the hell out of there
myself, reasoning that this was a good time to learn to stop sticking my nose into other people’s business. But I seldom listen to reason—one of my many imperfections. I punched in 911 on my cell phone and then headed back toward the manager.

“Hi there,” I said, ignoring the gun he held tightly in his hand. “Do you have any TastyKakes? I didn’t see any on the shelves.”

“I just got a new shipment. Haven’t had time to restock yet. Look, I’m a little busy here.” He waved the gun in the air in case I missed it the first time around.

I looked over at the teenagers and sighed. “Y’know, guys, this man is just trying to run a business, and I’m sure getting shot wasn’t on your agenda today. How about you just—go?”

“This is public property,” challenged a tall kid in leather. “We’re the public. We have every right to be here. You got any spare change?” he added.

I probably shouldn’t have laughed, but it was funny. I slipped my hand in my pocket, extracted a buck and handed it to him.

“Listen, the cops will be here any minute. Why not save yourselves some trouble and just leave before someone gets hurt.”

A blond haired girl came up behind Leather Boy and began tugging on his sleeve. She looked younger than the others, pale and vulnerable. I knew her. It was the girl from the gym.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

A cop car pulled into the parking lot and two officers got out, one in uniform, the other dressed in faded jeans and a tee shirt. The one in full cop attire was Mike Mahoe, a six foot four transplanted Hawaiian with an easy smile and congenial disposition. He headed toward the manager while the other one hung back, eyeing me and doing a slow shake of his beautiful, Black Irish-Italian head.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” he muttered, and since it was rhetorical I didn’t bother to explain.

“Yo, nice to see you too, DiCarlo. By the way, I was the one who called 911. I should at least get some credit for that.”

Bobby’s face broke out in a slow grin. “Well, that
is
an improvement. It’s good to hear you’re using some common sense for a change.”

I smiled back. “I think I’ve exercised a great deal of common sense lately. I dumped your sorry butt, didn’t I?” Well,
technically
, he dumped mine, but that was ages ago. Recently, we’d had a reunion, of sorts, but we both realized that the timing or whatever wasn’t right and we agreed to keep it strictly platonic, at least until the dust settled in our mutually crazy lives. That didn’t mean we stopped caring about each other though. I loved Bobby. I always would. And I knew in my heart he felt the same way about me.

“So what started all of this?” DiCarlo asked, jerking his head sideways as the manager handed his gun to Mike. Slowly, the teens began to disperse.

I filled him in, looking over at the small blond girl. She caught me staring at her and quickly moved away.

“Bobby, those kids seem so… I don’t know… lost. Are they homeless?” Philly has more than its fair share of runaway youth. Some are locals, but a lot of them end up here from various places like small farm communities in the Midwest. Coming from a loving if somewhat neurotic family, I couldn’t conceive of anyone choosing the streets over a home with three square meals a day and a roof over their heads.

Bobby frowned and I could feel his concern. Maybe he was thinking of his own little girl, a sweet little two-year old named Sophia. “I’d say most of them. A few might be weekend warriors—y’know, posers who like to hang with the really hardcore street kids.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. DiCarlo had seen too many of these kids face down in the gutter, victims of abuse and neglect.

“Well, why don’t the cops pick them up and find foster homes for them? Or at least take them to the shelters. Isn’t there one on Callowhill Street?”

Bobby grinned again, only this time there was no mirth behind his eyes. “You’re asking for simple answers to complicated questions, Sweetheart. I wish it were that easy.”

On the ride back to my house I thought about what Bobby had said.
Why wasn’t it that easy? Some of those kids were mere babies. Surely, they’d be better off back with their families or in foster care than out on the streets. How bad must their home lives be to choose a dumpster over their own beds? The thought stuck in my brain and wouldn’t let go.

When I got home, I headed into the kitchen to grab something to eat and found my kitten, Rocky, sitting on top of the counter, swiping tomatoes off the window ledge. She looked up when she saw me, gave me the once-over as only a feline can and knocked another tomato onto the floor. It landed with a splat. My dog, Adrian, a twenty-pound furball with a water fountain tail, appeared out of nowhere and began lapping up the tomato goop. I thought about stopping him, but then I’d have to clean it up myself.

Well, now that all the tomatoes were gone, I guessed I didn’t have to make a salad with my dinner. I’m trying to eat healthier these days, only all the stuff I really like comes wrapped in foil with the word Hershey imprinted on it. Self improvement is hard work. It involves a lot of exercise and denial and… leafy greens.

My mother called while I was eating. She and my dad live in Florida, and ever since she discovered the joys of “rollover minutes,” she’s been burning up the airwaves with free long distance calling.

“I’m worried about you,” she announced, my mother’s signature way of saying hello.

“Why are you worried? I’m fine.”
My
signature way of saying, “Hi back at’cha.”

My mother exhaled a long suffering sigh. “Brandy, it’s a Saturday night and most single women your age are out on dates. Doesn’t Janine know any nice, unattached men she can hook you up with?”

I assumed she meant the 1960’s version of the term “hooking up” and not the X-rated one of the new millennium. Either way, Janine didn’t know any nice men,
period.

“Mom, I’d love to talk now, but I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner.”

“You’re cooking?” she asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.

“
Yes, I’m cooking.
As a matter of fact, I made a lovely meal. Roasted chicken, baby new potatoes, steamed asparagus and peach cobbler for dessert.” Okay, that was a lie. I nuked a Lean Cuisine.

“Listen, Mom, Paul is thinking about signing up for
J Date
. He’s dying to talk to you about it. You should give him a call.” (I know. I’m a terrible sister. Even buying him a car won’t square me away on this one.)

My mother pondered this a moment. “Isn’t that a Jewish dating service?” Devout Catholic, Lorraine Alexander was none the less thrilled to hear that at least one of her children wouldn’t die alone. She hung up on me and called Paul.

*****

Fran sat on the floor and leaned forward. Her feet were planted on the ground, legs spread, knees up. I sat behind her, supporting her considerable weight. Swelled beyond all reasonable proportion, Fran’s normally slender, five foot nine-inch body looked like she’d swallowed a zeppelin. I held her steady while she exhaled.