Chapter 4

His father let him stew in silence as they drove back over the Pulaski Skyway into the industrial wasteland of Central Jersey, which was densely populated with the people who worked in those industries.

As they pulled up to a red light, Vince finally spoke.

"Let it go, Brendan."

"Why?" Brendan couldn't keep the snarl off of his face. "Those fucking cowards left me to rot. Simpering, spineless toadies: that's what they are. They disgust me. I thought they were my friends and my colleagues."

"Let it go," his father repeated in a soft, strong voice.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to end up like your mother who's as bitter as bitter can be. You are better than that. I raised you to be better than that."

Brendan dropped his head into his hand, mimicking his father in the coffee shop without realizing it. "I can't. It's too soon."

"Probably so, Brendan, but you don't have the luxury of time to lick your wounds either. You have to interview for a job that is going to pay shit, treat you like shit, and scare the shit out of you. This job isn't going to be a slice of heaven."

"I know, dad." Brendan couldn't quite keep the resentment at being lectured out of his voice.

"If you get the job today, I'll buy you a drink."

Brendan tried to sound cheery. "That sounds like a great deal, dad. Between the two of us, we might be able to afford the ice cubes for one glass."

"You got me there, Danny Boy. We won't exactly be drinking top shelf."

"Just as long as it isn't paint thinner you got a deal."

Vince smiled. "Of all my three boys, you had to be the smartass."

They slipped into the Jersey City limits. Brendan swiveled his head left and right as he tried to recognize the landmarks of a decade ago.

"I thought Jersey City went upscale, Dad?"

"The waterfront went upscale. Go two blocks in from the shore and things go downhill quickly. Jersey City was always immigrant central. First the Irish, then the Italians and Jews, and now the Latinos and Liberians live here."

Pawnshops and Check Cashing stores dotted the storefronts along with vacant lots. Goodwill had a thrift shop that Brendan marked for future reference. There was also a sign for a soup kitchen and a homeless shelter that he tried to convince himself wasn't an omen of things to come.

He knew he could still slide down further. Things could get much worse. His teeth could rot right out of his mouth and his nails could turn yellow and peel away.

A good snort of Canby-Meth and he would never worry about anything else again. He could make it quick and jump off any of the bridges. Almost all of them had full histories of jumpers.

The rumble of a freight train emerging from the tunnel shook the grim feelings from his head. Looking sheepishly at his father, he wondered if the old man could read his thoughts. Brendan was relieved to see his father scanning street signs, trying to find Bishop Street. Turning his attention to the roads, he observed that the traffic was full of semi's and work vans, belching all sorts of noxious fumes. The faces behind the wheels were a full spectrum of color, and one and all seemed intent on ignoring his curiosity.

His father cursed when Bishop Street turned out to be one way the wrong way. They maneuvered until they could turn onto the correct street. They were behind an eighteen-wheeler that groaned as the driver braked to turn into the first driveway. Brendan couldn't decide whether to moan in frustration at the delay or celebrate another moment's respite from his interview with someone's secretary's uncle who had a shady business.

The bridge was looking better and better, as was the idea of throwing himself in front of a freight train. He seriously questioned whether he had crossed the line from dark humor to ... something else.

Vince nudged him with his right elbow and pointed at the sign that read Upholstery and Restoration.

"White man will now go beg for token job," Brendan said.

"Cut the crap, Brendan. Suck it up and stop whining."

Brendan nodded. "You might as well come in with me, dad. They probably aren't going to like a beat up car with two white men in the front seat scanning the business."

Brendan took the stairs two at a time without realizing it. He grasped the metal security door and pulled. The atmosphere was utilitarian gray with a hint of fake paneling. Smells such as wood, sawdust and glue leaked through a dark doorway behind the counter.

A tall man with broad shoulders appeared in the doorway on cue. His hair had flecks of grey among the tight black curls and his expression was neutral. "Can I help you?" he said in a thick accent.

Brendan nodded. "Arcelia sent me over. She said you had a job."

The man's expression didn't change. "Why does a white man like you need a job?"

"Because I just got out of prison," Brendan said.

The man gave him another once over from top to bottom. Brendan didn't know what to do so he stood still for the inspection. The man hadn't thrown him out at the mention of prison which Brendan had half expected. Either that fact didn't bother this man or the job entailed disposing of dead bodies or shipping illegal substances inside of furniture cushions or something equally unsavory.