From the book
Chapter 1: All-American Beef
When Frank’s raging like he is right now, you just have to let him get it out of his system. If you tell him to cool it, you’ll only make things worse. We’re walking down Telegraph, and every time we stop at a corner, he tries to knock over a trash can. They’re the old steel ones that sound like a car wreck when they hit the sidewalk. Frank’s still waiting on his growth spurt; he needs a running start and hard kick to get the cans over. The one he knocks over now rolls halfway into the street, emptying its Styrofoam guts in the bike lane before settling in the gutter.
“Nice one,” I say, hoping it’s the last.
“Shut up,” he says. “You ain’t helping.”
“Trash can didn’t do nothing to me.”
He wipes his hands, the way people do when they’re proud of their work.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Like a champ,” he says.
The problem is money. We have none, we never have any, but today’s the last straw. We’ve been to a pizza place and a wing place and a sub place. They looked at both of my wrinkled dollars like they were covered in slime and pointed their snooty fingers over our heads, to the door. We left as Frank insulted their food, his stomach growling noisily the whole time. We justtried to eat and run at this Korean place, but they threw us out after the salads. I’ve still got the taste of ranch dressing stuck in my mouth.
“You know what I’m gonna do with my first million?” Frank says, trying to work another can into the street.
“Invest in the stock market.”
“No. That’s some nerdy shit you would do. You’d probably throw it all away on books. No—what I would do is buy a restaurant. That way, I could have them deliver food to my house for free every day. Grilled cheese every day. Free.”
A million dollars and he’d eat grilled cheese every day. That’s Frank in a nutshell.
“Sounds good,” I tell him. “But what are we doing in the meantime?”
He sighs. “Don’t know.”
After some thought I say, “I’d probably build a couple schools,” thinking it’s the right thing to say, but by then Frank’s lost interest. So we’re standing on the corner, sulking, when a group of kids walks past us, laughing, pushing, their hands stuffed into the bottom of a greasy paper bag.
“Where’d y’all get that?” Frank asks.
“Up the street,” one of the kids says. There’s a mush of fries in the back of his mouth. “Want some?”
My mom says nobody but con artists and churchfolk give you things for no reason. This kid looks tricky. He’s a heavyweight whose lips shine with grease. Just watching him chew makes me uneasy.
“Yeah,” Frank says, reaching out his hand. “Lemme grab a couple.”
“No problem,” the kid says, pouring the fries onto the sidewalk. “Eat up.”
A soggy knot of fries goes spilling out between us. A dark puddle of oil forms around the edges. It’s not that funny, but the kids are laughing so hard, they keep falling over each other.
“Eat!” Grease Lips repeats.
Instead, Frank steps on the pile. Potato mush covers his shoes. He’s got his jaw clenched and his fists balled up. The guys keep laughing. Frank’s not afraid of a fight, but with his size, it’s hard to take him seriously. Plus there’s six of them. They...