I’ve known Patrick for almost two years now. When the Police
asked me to describe him all I could say was squirrelly. This attempt here to
tell his story here is my way of figuring out what I should have said instead.
We met in the popsicle melting heat of the summer. On my way
our of the liquor store with a six-er and a bag of chips he asked if I could
buy for him. What was he to me? A skinny boned punk. But he exuded a confidence
in flashes of eye contact. It was either confidence or stupidity that made him
speak to me. I’d looked more like a cop that day, back from my mom’s funeral.
It didn’t cross my mind that he might have known me from the neighborhood.
Looking back, he made everyone’s business his business. Had he known about my
mom?
Any other day I wouldn’t have even acknowledged his
presence. No need. But that day I felt like what-the-fuck. I told him to follow
me. The chimes announced us to the store. Jesus poked his head over the cash
register. He’s cool, I said, gesturing to the punk. Jesus goes, he better be.
Hear that, I flip a look to Patrick, you better be. Patrick is unsure. Pick out
what you want. And I leave. Later when I asked Jesus, said he picked out a 40,
paid in coins, drank half of it in front of the store and then left the bottle.
I ran into him again and Gabrielle’s party – she had him
manning the keg.
