A made man.

“Hey you! You in the glasses! Come here! I need your four eyes to keep watch.”

Realizing the mobster was speaking to me, I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose to their rightful spot and puffed my chest hoping to add a few years worth of growth to my meager 14 year old frame.

“What’s the action?” I asked eager to begin my life of crime.

“Kids are still saying that these days? Unoriginal B's,” he mumbled.

“Yessir!” I replied misconstruing it as a compliment. Mobsters swear amongst each other by way of showing respect. Being called an illegitimate child was a high form of praise. I couldn’t believe I was already gaining respect within moments of meeting this guy. I wonder if he was a made man. I surely would be in a few short months if I continued to garner respect at this rate.*

“You ever picked a lock, kid?”

“Yes I had to choose a lock for my high school locker last week. The store had a wide variety but I think I made an excellent decision.”

“I thought nerdy looking kids were supposed to be smart.”

“If you saw the lock I selected from amongst the myriad that were displayed, you would call me a genius.”

“Whatever you say, kid. What I meant was have you ever opened a lock without a key? I was going to have you play lookout for me but I can’t seem to jimmy this lock. My fat fingers disallow the dexterity needed. Too much pasta I suppose.”

“Why would you need me to look out if it’s your place? Why don’t you have a key, mister? This would be much easier with a key.”

“I…uhhh…musta lost my keys cause I can’t find them in my pockets. I need you to watch for my friend that’s coming to pick me up. Be a good boy and help me out? There’s a shiny fifty cent piece in it for you."

"Sure thing, mister. Why do you have gloves on?"

"Scars. Hands don't play well with fire. Oh and make sure my friend doesn’t enter my house. He abhors hygiene and I don’t want him touching anything. The neighbors don’t like kids yelling so once I get in whistle if you see him or anyone else coming.”

As one prone to losing things I could commiserate and understand his predicament. This man looked downtrodden so who was I to add to his misery? He seemed like a good dude so I accepted even though a fifty cent piece was essentially worthless. Vending machines and arcade games don’t accept fifty cent pieces. I guess I could always get it converted to 2 quarters at a bank or convenience store. Whatever it took to impress the guy. I also didn’t want to let my fellow gangster down. We gangsters have to stick together.

My nimble fingers quickly familiarized themselves with the tools he provided as well as the inner workings of the lock’s tumblers. Mere seconds later a simple twist of the wrist sprung the lock.

“A natural, huh? That could come in handy. Wait here,” he whispered as he vanished into the darkened interior of the dilapidated building.

I took a seat on the stoop and entertained thoughts of where I would live when I became a made man. Surely not in a dilapidated rat hole like this. The wooden door was sufficiently warped so as to not fully conceal the interior from the elements when it closed. A drafty house was something I’d grown up with but never became accustomed to. As a gangster, these and other manifestations of being poor would be recalled and recounted with humor over lobster and champagne. I didn’t know what champagne tasted like or what it really was but I’d heard that’s what wealthy people drank and so I imagined it was good. Lobsters the size of small children and rivers of champagne filled my thoughts until I heard a commotion upstairs. Clumsy B must have tripped over something in the dark. The thought that I’d just referred to him as a clumsy B made me feel tough. I was starting to think and swear like a gangster. What kind of gun would I carry? A Dirty Harry .45 revolver or an easily concealed Derringer? Both? Why not? The right to bear arms is plural, right?

While I was practicing drawing my imaginary guns, a man rounded the corner and was headed toward me. In my excitement of becoming a gangster, I forgot to tell the man upstairs I didn’t know how to whistle. That didn’t stop me from trying feverishly as the man continued my way like I had a tractor beam on him. The man looked me square in the eyes, chuckled and asked, “You playing an imaginary trumpet or having a seizure?”

“Don't act like you've never set off a loser alert before,” I retorted while relishing my new found gangster parlance.

“Big words for a pipsqueak. Why don’t you get off my steps and run along before I clobber you,” he said as he rustled my hair.

“Sorry Charlie but you don’t live here and I can’t let you in. You’re unclean. The guy upstairs said to keep you out.” Had I my guns, I’d be poking deep dimples in his fat belly with the gun barrels to strengthen my words.

“You can’t let me in? You?” he asked as he grabbed his belly and laughed with all his might. His mirth annoyed me. I have been referred to as many things but never a punch line. This would not do.

“Glad to hear you at least cleaned the dirt out of your ears so you can hear me. Why don’t you run up the street and get us a couple doughnuts. I know you’re hungry. Better yet why don’t you run in place for a minute cause you look like you sweat doughnuts, ya portly B.” I am definitely going to be a made man in a couple months, listen to me. I sound like I’ve been doing it for decades. Guys like me make moves. We ascend quickly. Surely this man was as convinced as I was. I swore appropriately and respectfully. No doubt he would tell the boss to promote me past levels usually reserved for peons. No grunt work for me. No sir.

SLAP!! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnnng. What in the world was that ringing and what made that noise. When did I learn to fly? My brain was incapable of processing or answering the questions for a few seconds.

I looked around from atop a summit of garbage bags. How did I get here? Where were my glasses? I looked up and saw the rotund man standing on the stairs yelling something in my direction. I knew he was yelling from seeing the protruding veins in his neck and the spittle flying out of his mouth but I heard nothing. Nothing but constant ringing. Did I just get pimp slapped off some stairs?

To be continued…but probably not.

*Clearly the extent of my knowledge of gangstering was nominal.