by Charles Sweeney

You know how certain people you know are always up to no good but you can't help wondering about them even though you know they're trouble? Well, for me that kid is Jack.

I mean, if you want to buy beer, Jack is the kid to see. If you're looking for a dirty magazine you ask Jack. If one day your bike disappears from where you left it leaning against the meter while you were taking a few swings during a stickball game and two days later you see one of the older guys from up the block riding around with his girlfriend on the handlebars, you went to see Jack.

We're in the same grade at school but Jack moves in a completely different circle if you know what I mean. He lives across the street from me but he might as well be living in a whole other whole country if you get what I'm saying here.

Some of his friends even drive cars. And not their own cars. At least that's what I hear.

Me, I'm lucky to be able to keep a half-decent bike on the street. That summer I had a Schwinn, which was really a pieced-together Frankenstein my Dad made from salvaged parts.

Anyway, one of Jack's things was to prowl around the neighborhood at night, looking for things to do. I always wanted to tag along since the next day I would never stop hearing about what went down.

"You shoulda been there. I can't describe it. You would not believe it." This is all I would hear. The stories getting wilder and wilder. These are the kind of things that make a guy like me curious.

The night before I was supposed to go to camp upstate I'm laying on my bed reading a sports magazine minding my own business. My parents were out dancing or something. Jack was in his backyard shooting hoops. I could hear him dribbling from my bedroom window. So I'm laying there looking at a picture of Tom Seaver in mid wind-up, his knee barely scraping the mound, his arm about to snap a 95 mile-an-hour fastball, when I hear a truck pull up the block. No big deal but this time the truck stops out front and the engine cuts out. I walk into my parent's room in the front of the house and look outside. What do I see but Jack's brother sitting behind the wheel of a huge gray panel truck.

I run downstairs to the living room to get a better look. When I look out I see Jack and his brother Francis walking around the truck, Jack with this stunned look on his face. I can't hear what they're saying so I walk outside and sit on my stoop. The two of them are standing around back of the truck. Francis, that's Jack's brother, he opens the doors and the two of them jump up inside.

"Holy shit," Jack says.

Now, all I want to do is walk over there and get a look inside. But I play it cool. The two of them are in there for a couple of minutes. I can't hear anything but it's killing me what's in there so I walk down to the corner to get a better angle. The two of them are sitting inside on the wheel wells, hunched over a big wooden crate. Like you see on the loading docks. I walk across the street and back up the block until I'm right next to the truck when Jack pokes his head out and sees me standing there.

"Whatta you want?" He says to me.

"Hey Jack."

"Don't gimme that hey Jack."

"Nice truck," I think I said.

He jumps down and right away he backs me up to the building. Now we're nose to nose. I don't even want to raise my hands to protect myself because I don't want him to think I'm making some kind of move or anything so I wait for him to give me a shove or grab up my shirt or something but then Francis sticks his head out from the back of the truck and sees it's me.    

"Jack, come on, which one do you want?"

"Shhh Franny come on." Jack says. Then he looks me up and down. If I could've said anything I would have but at this point I can't even swallow.

"Don't worry about him," Francis says. Then he gives me this look and he smiles a little. He used to fool around   with my sister so he kinda knows me so I'm a little relieved at this point.

"Hey, little man. Why don't you hop in."

"Him?" Jack says, then he starts laughing.

"Little man. Check it out," Francis said.

They say there are moments in your life that are like defining moments. Like when the Mets drafted Seaver. Or when they traded Nolan Ryan. Obviously they can go either way. Sometimes it's you has to make that decision. In a split second, you make the choice on instinct. And as much as I wanted to jump up into that truck I just couldn't move. I mean I was glued to the spot.

"Forget this kid," Jack said. He backed off me and jumped up into the truck and grabbed one of the doors.

Francis disappeared inside and started up the truck. The thing coughed black smoke all over me and I had to close my eyes.

"Suit yourself," Jack said, and slammed the doors shut.

Francis threw the thing in gear, grinding his way into first and just like that the two of them drove off down the block going God knows where to do God knows what. I stood there for a minute thinking I maybe made a mistake. It seemed like all I could ever do was stand there and watch.

I walked back inside and heated up the meatloaf my mother left for me. I ate a few bites thinking I was hungry. Then I went upstairs and ran the bath for like a minute and then shut the water. Then I wet a towel and threw it on the floor. I ran some water over my hands and rubbed it into my hair.

I threw myself onto my bed and went back to the magazine but I couldn't really concentrate anymore. I mean it was like it wasn't even the same article. And I read everything about Seaver. I mean everything. But I just threw the thing across the room and lay back in my bed.

I looked at the bag my mother packed for camp sitting in the corner of my room but every time I heard a truck going by I listened to see if it would stop but this was a fake thing to do because even I had to admit to myself that I'd had my chance so I gave up listening and threw the switch on my radio and the game was just coming on and so the night wasn't a total loss.

Seaver was pitching that night and he threw another one-hitter, although I had to hear about it from my father in the morning since I fell asleep, in my clothes, listening for that stupid truck. He didn't get the win, my father said. They couldn't score any runs for him. Another no-decision, he told me. And I knew about no-decisions.

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