The Men in Mercer Street

Work It Off

We spent most of the walk home arguing about the three hundred dollars. Frankie thought we could borrow it. But I didn’t like the idea.

"Why?" he asked.

"Who are we going to borrow three hundred from?"

"My brother."

"Does he have three hundred?"

"He might."

"Frankie, your brother owes my father ten dollars for a haircut."

Then he was quiet.

"Fine. My uncle."

"Your uncle hates you."

"He doesn't hate me."

"He told you not to come around his house after you took his car."

"I brought it back."

"Yeah, with an empty tank."

"That wasn't the point."

I laughed it out, but the laugh didn't last. We were still three hundred dollars short, and neither of us had a job that paid enough to solve the problem by tomorrow evening.

We reached my block and stopped outside the barbershop. The lights were still on upstairs, which meant my father hadn't gone to bed yet. I could already picture the conversation if I walked through the door and asked him for money.

Three hundred dollars wasn't the kind of amount you asked your father for without an explanation.

And I wasn't about to explain the truth. Frankie looked at the shop, then at me.

"You're going in?"

"Yeah."

"You want me to come?"

"No."

He nodded.

"Tomorrow morning?"

"I'll find you."

He started walking away, then turned back.

"We're not going to prison for over three hundred dollars, right?"

I stared at him.

"Stop talking."

He smiled faintly. "That's not a no."

Then he disappeared around the corner.

I went upstairs.

My mother was asleep. My father was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper folded in front of him, with reading glasses low on his nose. He looked up when I entered.

"You're late."

"Yeah."

"Where were you?"

"Out with Frankie."

He studied me for a moment.

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah."

It was the first lie of the night. He went back to his newspaper.

I stood there for another few seconds, waiting for him to ask something else. He didn't. I went to my room and closed the door.

I counted the money I had left. Twenty-three dollars. That’s all I had. I put the bills on the desk and stared at them.

Three hundred dollars.

I had spent more than I should have over the last few weeks. New sneakers. A jacket. Food. Drinks. A few nights out with Frankie. None of it had seemed like a problem when the money was coming in.

Now I understand how quickly it disappeared.

I barely slept. The next day came.

Frankie and I tried to make money the only way we knew how, but nobody was going to hand us three hundred dollars in one afternoon. We collected a few small bets and ended up with less than fifty.

At around five, we stood outside a diner on Mercer Street counting it.

"Forty-seven," Frankie said.

I nodded.

He put the bills back in his pocket.

"Maybe Joey forgot."

"He didn't forget."

"Maybe he doesn't care."

"He cares."

"How do you know?"

"Because he sent a car for us."

Frankie sighed. We both knew what was coming. At five-thirty, we headed back toward the Social Club.

The place looked exactly the same as it had the night before. Men stood outside smoking cigarettes, cars were parked along the curb, and the door opened every few minutes as people went in and out.

Frankie stopped before we reached it.

"Maybe we should run."

I looked at him.

"Where?"

He shrugged.

"Somewhere."

"You are planning on walking to another city?"

"I haven't thought that far Frankie."

I pushed the door open.

Inside, the baseball game was on again. The same wooden tables filled the room, though most of the men from the night before were gone.

Joey saw us and pointed toward our back.

"Come, I'd like you to meet Salvatore.”

My stomach tightened. Frankie looked at me.

"That's probably good."

"You don't know that."

"No. But I'm trying to stay positive."

We followed Joey through the back door.

There was a smaller room behind the main club. A desk sat near the window, covered with papers, a telephone and an ashtray.

Salvatore was sitting behind the desk.

He looked up when we entered.

"Sit."

We sat.

For a few seconds, he said nothing.

Then he looked at me.

"Did you get the money?"

I shook my head.

"How much you got?"

"Forty-seven."

Frankie glanced at me.

"Forty-seven dollars," I corrected.

"You're short two hundred and fifty-three."

"Yes."

He didn't look angry.

He picked up a cigarette, turned it between his fingers and finally put it down without lighting it.

"Who’d you steal it?"

The question came so calmly that I almost didn't know how to answer.

"We wanted the money."

"I know that. I'm asking why."

I looked at Frankie. He was staring at the floor. I looked back at Salvatore.

"I needed some stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Clothes. A car eventually. Money in my pocket. I didn't want to keep asking my father every time I needed something."

Salvatore nodded slowly.

"You work?"

"Not really."

"Your father owns the barbershop."

"Yeah."

"You could work there."

"I don't want to cut hair."

That brought the smallest smile to his face.

"I didn't ask what you wanted to do."

I stayed quiet. Salvatore looked at Frankie.

"And you?"

"Same thing."

"No," Salvatore said. "You wanted to impress people."

Frankie looked up. Salvatore didn't say anything else. For some reason, that bothered Frankie more than an insult would have.

Salvatore leaned forward.

"You boys don't have three hundred dollars. That's obvious. And if I wanted it badly enough, I'd get it from you one way or another."

Frankie swallowed.

"But I'm giving you another option."

I looked at him.

"You work it off."

Salvatore continued, "You do what you're told. You show up when you're told. You don't ask questions you don't need answered. You don't take anything that doesn't belong to you."

He looked directly at me when he said the last part.

"How long?" I asked.

"Until the debt is paid."

"How much does each job pay?"

"Depends on the job."

I thought about it.

The sensible thing would have been to walk away. But I didn't have three hundred dollars. I didn't have a job. I didn't have a better option.

And beneath all of that was something I didn't want to admit yet. I was curious.

I spent my whole life watching men walk through that club carrying themselves differently from everyone else on Mercer Street. They had money. Cars. Connections. People listened when they spoke.

Now one of those men was offering me a way inside.

"Okay," I said.

Frankie looked at me, then at Salvatore.

"Okay."

Salvatore nodded.

"Be here tomorrow at six."

"Morning?"

"Evening."

He reached for the cigarette again.

"And Nico?"

"Yeah?"

"From now on, when I tell you something, listen carefully."

I nodded.

"I will."

He picked up the newspaper on his desk, making it clear the conversation was over.

Frankie and I stood. As we walked back through the club, I felt different.

Not important. Not yet.

But I knew I'd just made a decision that was going to change my life. I just didn't know how much.