ALAN LELCHUK
613
aisles like a racehorse after a big win.
Outside the store, I felt firm, free and easy, and didn't mind looking
strangers straight in the eye. But no wandering for me that night, just a bee–
line for the subway, my money stuffed down into my front dungaree pocket.
The only stop I made was to check out my typewriter in Broadway Office
Supplies; there it was, still Royal, still sharp. I could feel the keys on the tips
of my fingers.
Later, at home, alone with my chicken dinner waiting in a pot and a
note from my mother about how to cook it-she and Sam had gone off to
Connecticut for the weekend-I counted my take. One hundred thirty-five
dollars and sixty cents. I whistled at the sum. For one night's work, a few
hours really, I had hit the jackpot. Without committing any crime! I sat in our
old kitchen, happy with oilcloth, old stove, pale yellow paint peeling, and ate
the meal very slowly. I was tasting a victory whose flavors were new to
me, and not entirely distinguishable.
For the rest of the evening, my heart fluttered with excitement over
my outlandish booty. (In my thesaurus, I looked up prize, and found booty, a
word I decided to use for myself.) Even the Friday night fight, with Don
Dumphy speeding through each round ofWillie Pep's fainting, ducking, and
jabbing, couldn't cool me down. Through three or four hours I daydreamed
of high adventure, while simultaneously trying to follow Philip Carey's low
one. I was being hit by all sorts of impulses, and prowled our three-room
apartment looking for definition and resolution. Yes, my plan had to
be
firmed
up, put into motion, and soon, I realized. First, I had to find out about some
local particulars.
Before work the next morning I laid out an envelope for Mom with
twenty-five bucks, making up for the week I had lost, plus some.
Up at Schulte's, I handed Mosey an envelope too, saying, "Here's
some dough, pay me back sometime." He was having to work the extra day
nowadays, to make up for his poker loss.
"Huh? You crazy boy? What the hell you pullin?"
"Nothing. What you lost a few weeks ago in poker here," I shrugged,
"I made up over at Jackson's last night. That's all. So go ahead and pocket it.
When you get hot, you can return the dough."
"Jackson's, you?" He shot me a fishy look, opened the envelope, and
handed the two tens and a five, and shook his head. "You sho is a fruitcake,
aint you? From Jackson, that crooked fucker, Huh? Well then I don't mind
takin out a loan. Thanks, Aaron, thanks. First lucky day I get, you get this
back, you heah?"
"Sure, Mosey, sure," I answered, knowing that he hadn't had one of
those days in years, and wasn't likely to. Luck was not simply a matter of
