First Job 1928
Forget father, you think. What is he but a snapped pencil. A hole in your pocket. You’re old enough to leave Holy Cross, where you punched the good Christian brother who poked you in the chest. You can drive a car. Change a tire. Prod the dead spark of wires, looking for something to flare. Think of your son writing this who hasn’t been born. Think of the daughter who will carry your eyes and the cracked link of inheritance that will break her mind. Think how lucky you are, good looking, sad eyed, short tempered, up to intricate tasks, your wife-to-be living down Tenth Avenue, her readiness muffled by traffic, her name spelled out in a vestibule. The breeze off the river, its hint of future gone bad, now just a tart taste that hovers in your speech. You learn piquant, brusque. There’s a man you know needs a helping hand. His store front sign says so. On the corner an old woman selling flowers you can hardly name, this day the world is yours.