A/N: Hello. Things have slowed down a little. Maybe because I strayed from canon? Back on track here, as you will see. Please let me know what you think.
Around the time when I'm turning seventeen, the owner of the disused lumberyard croaks. Some nephew or grandson or something surfaces, decides to turn it into a working lot again, office and all. I go down by the tracks, where I know there are other places we could use.
I need a place. I need somewhere the boys can hang, somewhere we can store things. Somewhere that says I am a person to be reckoned with, not some punk on a street corner he don't even own.
I want the old warehouse as soon as I see it. I get Sammy to kick in the door.
It won't take more than a couple of days for the boys to clear out some of the crap – not all of it, we can use some camouflage. There's a back room where the boys can hang, space for a couple of couches. It has a window onto the back of the rail depot that's already been jimmied open.
But upstairs, that's what I want. A metal staircase runs up one wall and there's a walkway looking down. An office and one more room besides. That'll be mine.
Sammy's trying to see if there's any water in the pipes – there's no sink left on the wall so he's going to get his feet wet if there is, but I don't point that out – when I go upstairs to check out my office.
That's when he rushes me. Some stinking hobo who's been sleeping out here, up and clocks me one.
Reflexively, I punch him right back, a good one to the gut that knocks him back against the wall. He ain't interested in prolonging it, he's down the stairs and away before Sammy even turns around.
And then Sammy's looking up the stairs at me and his big, stupid face is big, stupid and shocked.
And red. Everything looks red.
When I open my mouth to speak to Sammy I can taste it. And it's dripping down my chin.
I'd like to say I've never seen Sammy move so quick, but maybe he doesn't, maybe I'm thinking in slow motion. He does sacrifice his t shirt, wadding it up and holding it to my cheek. Then he gets sick, puking over the side of the staircase as we go down. I tell him I want that cleaned up before we move the gang in.
He drives without looking at me. I figure he doesn't want to puke in the car.
Twenty three stitches and I come out to find Curly waiting for me.
"What the hell are you doin' here?" I ask him. He can't drive for shit. I can't drive now, even if he stole a car to come down here. I can hardly walk straight on the stuff they shoveled into me, before they held me down and went to work.
"Dallas is outside," Curly announces, and for a second I think he's talking about the city. I'm tripping on these meds, and good.
Winston must have been babysitting. Makes sense that Curly got someone to drive, but for some reason Winston brought the littlest Curtis and some dark haired kid too. It's like some kind of freaking kids' convention in the back seat. At least little Curtis knows how to shut up. Although I wouldn't call him watchful, it's more like he's gonna piss his pants every time I look back there.
Curly says that Sammy's telling everyone I took a broken bottle to the face. Sammy's telling everyone I took on some squatter to clear him out the warehouse, to make it mine. I never say a word about the matter.
I sleep for fourteen hours and then I don't sleep for two days because the meds wear off and my face hurts to all fuck and back again. I discover that it's possible to use our bathroom without looking in the mirror.
I don't need a mirror because my old lady bursts into tears every time she looks at me.
Ron grunts and tells her I most likely had it coming. Pretty sure she then makes it so he don't got nothing coming, because he goes on a three day drunk, right before pay day. Again.
And to my surprise Curly steps up. He lifts a load of stuff that's actually worth some dough, gets it fenced and with said dough, he buys food. The thing that most impresses me is, he don't hand the money over to Ma, he and Angel get the stuff. Maybe he's been listening after all.
As soon as I can move my face without wincing – by which I mean talk – I get back to the boys. It's dangerous to leave them unsupervised. I tell them they'd better fucking appreciate the warehouse.
They do.
