excerpt
I searched as best I could among the odd shapes that hung overhead
and along the left hand wall, picking my way through the clutter, stubbing
my toe, barking my shins, and cursing under my breath, but all I could
see was long handled hoes and shovels. I turned around to face the other
wall. Hanging from the low ceiling was a coil of what looked like a thick
metal rope. I remember asking my father what it was. He smiled, “It’s a
snake. A plumbing tool. for clearing drains. You feed it in, and twist it.” I
was impressed, and it must have showed because he went on to describe
several other hardware miracles designed for sinks and toilets, among them
a set of Stilsons. And there they were, three of them, hung in descending
order from hooks in the unpainted shiplap that was the outside wall of the
chicken coop before it became the inside wall of the shed.
Paulie never said what he wanted it for, so I chose the mid-sized
wrench and tucked it into my belt. Then I noticed a length of pipe cradled
on three nails below the set of wrenches. I took that too, turned the knob
on the entry lock and pushed the button up to hold it in the open position,
then climbed up and stepped out into the glare. When I turned to close
the door behind me, Anthony tugged at my arm. I reached into my pocket
and gave him his four cents. He ran off and I jogged down the alley in
the other direction, and around the block to where Paulie paced back and
forth, surrounded by a ring of expectant faces.
I pulled the wrench from my belt and held it up. “Fifty cents, Paulie,
or this piece of cheese goes back where it came from.”
He grunted, fished in his pants, and handed me two quarters. He
took the wrench and I followed him along the sidewalk till he came to a
stop in front of the red fire hydrant. He fitted the head of the Stilson
to the steamer nozzle cap and pulled on the handle. Nothing happened.
He tried again, harder this time, his face and neck red with exertion, but
he couldn’t budge it. His face got a lot redder when his younger brother
started to laugh. Gabe Scibetta was a dope, but a very well built one, with
cut muscles and a weight lifter’s power in his legs and arms. He stepped up
with a self-satisfied grin, grabbed the wrench handle with both hands and
yanked it toward him. The cap came off, bounced against the standpipe,
and hung from its chain. Gabe lifted the wrench and adjusted it to fit the
operating nut at the top of the bonnet. He spit on his palms and rubbed
them together, an entirely useless gesture that looked like something he
borrowed from the three stooges, then gripped the handle…
Libros Libertad 