Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash
Harkey’s instruction for doing everything was “like ya mean it”, in that downriver hint of southern even though his family had been living north of Toledo since before World War Two.
When Zack was learning to ride a two-wheeler, “Pedal like ya mean it,” Harkey would bark, drinking Kessler’s and Sprite out of a Vernor’s bottle because the whiskey colored the Sprite to the point that it could pass for ginger ale and Harkey could walk freely around town without cop hassles.
When Zack had his first date with a girl at fourteen, as he left the house in a hand-me-down suit from his dead cousin, Harkey sputtered “Fuck like ya mean it” and laughed that disgusting wet laugh of his that sounded like the clothes washer was loaded unevenly.
Zack always wondered if that was the breaking point for his ma after all the other crazy shit Harkey had done.
Because two weeks after Harkey had told Hilly Rider’s little boy to fuck like he meant it, Zack came home from school and all traces of Harkey were gone, with the exception of the oil stain his rusty Vega left in the driveway of the duplex.
He never wound up hating Harkey, but his ma sure did, and any mention of him turned her red like the overalls of the grocery store mascot and made her stir her drink with her finger like the Amaretto was cake batter.
***
Zack was twenty-two and “on call” at the car wash,(which was always the case on a Sunday when business might spike if the weather was warm but the Detroit roads were salty) when his phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize.
He answered, because you never know, and fuck if it wasn’t Harkey.
The voice made him flinch, he wasn’t sure why, because his Mom was at Dooley’s praying over football squares, and she was the only one who would freak.
“Son” Harkey said, the one thing Zack for sure hated about Harkey, when he called him son, “I’m old and I’m sick and I need a favor.”
Harkey gave him an address, said it was urgent, and when Zack mumbled a very non-committal “I guess”, Harkey laughed, weaker than Zack remembered but still sloshy and phlegmy and gross, and said, “Drive like ya mean it.”
Zack had a slow leak in one tire and needed an oil change, so he drove like he didn’t give a fuck, but he made it to the address Harkey gave him relatively shortly, wishing he had asked Harkey “how much?” when Harkey brought up money.
Harkey was in a duplex near the Smith projects. The other half of the duplex was a smoke-stained, half boarded shell.
The money in this favor was $103 dollars, which fucked with Zack’s head.
It was such an arbitrary figure that Zack knew it had to be almost all Harkey had left.
Harkey told him he was off the sauce, because of chemo, but he’d wash down the oxy’s with a light beer now and again.
That much money to drive less than two miles to Queen of Hope Church meant that dope was involved.
“It’s not dope,” Harkey said, “it’s socks. You know, for the poor.”
Harkey handed him a bag of socks, shrink-wrapped over the original packaging.
“I’m not a complete dumbass, Harkey. There’s dope in the socks.”
Harkey smiled. Exaggerated, almost clownish, his lips curled up like a melting cigarette cellophane and he said “No dope. Just socks. For the poor. Walk up to the guy in the third pew, all the way to the west side of the church. Set the socks down between you, say “For the poor”, get up, genu…genaf…do that damn curtsy, kneeling thing your momma does, and get the fuck out of there. But no hurry, because it’s just socks.”
“I don’t have to pick up any money?”
“No sir, son, Paypal. Technology. As soon as my man gets the socks, he’ll set me right.”
Zack looked his portly third stepfather up and down.
“This is fucked, Harkey. You ain’t too sick to go yourself.”
Harkey cleared his throat. Not as bad as his laugh, but still enough to make Zack gag,
And he bent over. He pulled up his pant leg and Zack saw the electronic tether. Zack simply nodded. It didn’t make him feel any better, but it made sense.
“You ain’t my friend, Harkey. My ma hates you. If I get popped, I’m rollin’ on you. So if you wanna change your mind…”
Harkey shook his head and pursed his lips. It was child-like.
“Nobody is getting popped in church. That’s why we chose it. Take the socks. He’s waitin’. Obey them stop signs, but drive like ya mean it.
Zack felt like Harkey was right. Cops wouldn’t be looking for a dope deal in a church after services on Sunday. He didn’t like this favor, but the ruse made sense. Lots of homeless guys in the neighborhood did get socks and toilet paper from church.
He counted the bills one more time; three twenties, seven wrinkled fives, and eight singles.
He was past the point of saying no now, but counting again seemed like the businesslike thing to do.
Zack took the socks and walked back to the street.
His key was almost in his lock when he realized his driver’s side tires were gone.
He slammed the socks to the asphalt, then quickly snatched them up and marched back into Harkey’s house.
Photo by Frank Albrecht on Unsplash
“Aww, don’t go back on yer word, now, son…”
“My fucking tires got ganked. Find someone else. I’m fucked.”
Harkey pressed a speed dial number on his phone.
“My guy got delayed. Be patient. Someone will be there in twenty minutes. Pray like ya mean it.”
Harkey began to laugh, and Zack shook a little.
He was thinking how much he really did hate Harkey as the back door flew off the hinge and the six cops yelled “Freeze.”
I like the ending.
🙁but good!!!