It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 32: Chapter XI

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

Boston! 

God smiles on ye, Citadel of Cities! Crown Jewel of Americana! Mother-City, no more rapturous than when she gleams in the moonlight. There had been many a night when the Tiny Teamsters had snuck from their beds to the roof of No. 8, empty beer bottles from the garbage clutched in their arms. There they would stand, marveling at all those lights that flickered in the windows of the buildings, and rose high into the sky, melting together in a pyretic, orange glow; and on that roof they would play a special game of 'He-Man'—

'And She-Man!' little Vera liked to add, often holding a bottle over her head, ready to cudgel anyone that dared disagree with her.

Then they would take turns hurling those bottles towards the skyline, seeing if they could be the first to bust a light in one of those many, many windows. (The farthest they ever got was Margo Kane' windshield, but that didn't stop them from trying.)

What stories Bud would have now that he was seeing the lights up close. There he was, trapped in the front seat of his father's rusted Oldsmobile, drinking in the winding and impossibly tight streets. The trepidation he had being so close to the Specter could not weaken his amazement. Only up close could he see that this was a world unto itself. On the roof of No. 8, everything looked so small and manageable, but in the midst of it all, on the ground, in the heart of true splendor, the place was alive—And the buildings! Like majestic titans! By day, the only time in which Bud had witnessed them large slabs, and as a little boy, he'd feared they would come tumbling down like a house of cards. But seeing them awake, floor after floor glittering with light, maybe he wonder about the stories and adventures that took place behind those windows when no one was around to see. He wished the Specter would pull over and kick him out. He wanted to climb to the very tops of those welcoming goliaths. He wanted to be on top of the world to see how much there was to view.

You'd be noticed then. On top of the world, with everyone looking up—

'Alfonso—ALFONSO! What da fuck you lookin' at?! Driving brought out the worst of the Specter's rage. He drove as if damned hounds chased them. He skidded and swerved around lampposts and trash cans, sending alley cats careening into the shadows, never to recover from the trauma of his headlights. 'Read the fuckin' words on the page!'

Bud looked down at the crumpled paper the Specter had shoved into his hands when they'd gotten in the car. The writing was like chicken scratch, and the letters were all placed in foreign positions. Italian positions, the boy wisely guessed.

'Daddy, I dunno what this means—'

'Who gives a fuck?! Jesus Christ! Just do like I do!' and he hummed a tune, not well, and Bud hummed it back. 'Good, now do it with the words.'

'But—'

'JUST DO IT!'

'Quester la storier, di uno di noi—'

'QuestA la storiA, di uno di noi—PRONOUNCE the FUCKIN' WORDS!' All the way from Curly's into the innards of Mother-City, the Specter had drilled pronunciation into his son's head, forcing Bud to match his intonations, always with a helpful piece of encouragement to accompany the tutelage: 'I swear—you fuck me on this, I swear I will come down so hard on you, you gonna wish you was dead!'

Bud believed him. Ten years of being the Specter's son had taught him not to take such threats idly, but he had no honest idea what it was he could do to 'fuck over' the Specter. If he'd known, then he might seriously have risked limb and wellness to take the opportunity. He could join his Nana. Hopefully, someone would cry over him. Probably Ed—