The Hardie boy is waiting for me. It is 9:14 am and I am already late. The Hardie boy is waiting for me in a place he is sure will allow him to be the first to see me. Leaning against the wooden display case, he has an unobstructed view of the double front doors as I swing them both open and scurry into the foyer. He sort of slides, like a skinny snake, up to me, really up to me, his face a few inches from mine. “Um hmm!” he says, accenting the second syllable with vigor. I try to say “What!” but nothing comes out – my voice is hiding itself – I haven’t spoken since the night before, or rather a few hours before, when it was still dark, and I ran home from the clubs to change clothes.

He is staring at me, only for a second, so I will look at him – he needs me to look at him so he can complete the gag. I do look up, laboriously – I’m bloodshot from the smoke, the drink, the lack of sleep. His crows’ feet spread into his temples. “Close your eyes or you’ll bleed to death,” he says, and then turns on his heel to go fetch me some coffee.

His time on a Mekong River gunboat made him hate tardiness. His time with me made him more accepting of those whose lives sometimes overwhelmed the need for punctuality. He was regimented about everything but me, sort of, but then, he seemed to accept it as his duty to make me laugh, constantly, Reveille to Taps.

He left too early, like a lot of people back then, chasing some demon he had seen before, one that woke him up on that gunboat in the middle of dark and hot jungle night.

-Danny Grosso

Instagram@artispolitics

Author’s page: amazon.com/author/dannygrosso