Pride and Butane

Thin Lines, Thick Memories

Photo by Loïc Barré on Unsplash

My brother can let a lot of shit go. Some shit he’s gonna hold onto forever.

One of the things he’ll never let go is his Zippo lighter, got his first initial engraved in it, an L, a big one, long and flowing like a wave.

He loves that thing. One of the first things he bought when he started making money.

Like most kids in Brightmoor who make money, he was running rocks and some powder for some older cats, guys whose names everybody knew and only uttered with awe.

We’re not kids anymore. Lane’s still making money.

We were on an escalator, me and Lane, leaving the Wayne County building inspector. 

Lane had to pay a fine because one of his legit businesses had a dumpster not up to code, overflowing, improperly placed in relation to the structure.

He argued his case. Lost.    

A lot of people would be angry. Not Lane. He was proud of himself, proud that he learned to be articulate and professional despite getting kicked out of Redford High School at sixteen.

Guy on the escalator, below us looks up,  says “you got a light I can borrow?”

Lane says “No, sorry.” Pleasant. Polite.

“Guy says “You got a cigar in your pocket, motherfucker.”