He was an old man begging for change, but I gave him some fries instead.
When he reached for the food, I saw the purple above his wrist. Another two-bit, bruise-hustler. The second I’d seen that day.
“It’s Booth,” he said, showing off his wrist, “but I got more than him. Five bucks to see it again. Another ten for Teddy. I got Roosevelt on my ass.”
“That’s your John Wilkes Booth? I’ve seen knee scrapes more Booth than that.”
He rolled up his sleeve and put his arm toward the streetlight. “See that mustache? That ain’t no Twain. That’s a coward for the ages.”
“It’s a Custer if you’re lucky.”
He threw down the fries and smashed them like cheap cigarillos. “And where’s your bruise?” he asked. “Where’s your Booth, motherfucker?”
“I don’t do Booth anymore. No one does.”
“Oh, he’ll come around again. I’ve been at this too long, seen too many Booths to know better.”
“Well, even if that Booth was decent, I wouldn’t give five bucks to see it.”
“How bout three?”
“Here’s one, but you can keep him for yourself.”
He put the dollar down the crotch of his pants, and I saw the bottom of a bruise on his stomach. “What’s that one?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a half-assed Grover Cleveland.”
“Oh no you don’t,” he said, tucking his shirt in tightly. “This one’s just for me.”
“Come on. Is it Coolidge?”
“Nope. I’ll take this to the grave.”
“That’s fine,” I said baiting, “I’ve seen a Jesus before.”
That got him angry, and I was sure I’d pushed him to show me. But he walked instead to the park and started another hustle. Whatever he had on his stomach, well, maybe I didn’t deserve it.
