Deric walked from the Belleburg El station on his second wind of the day …

The day was typical. The alarm was ignored so there was absolutely no time for a shower, for the El was a fickle bitch. GRATEFULLY the oil from last night's car job wasn't too noticeable under his uneven fingernails, but his body was ripe and slick. His ultra-thick black hair had, at best, a matte finish. Last eve's balmy summer night had him slumber without clothes. The underwear drawer was bare. No matter, in the junkyard body suit you couldn't tell. Although in Deric's case you could. In the morning's frenzy, he pushed his big feet into those tan suede boots and quickly tied them. The three-block run to the El wasn't bad. His 'Schalater hat did not blow away in Chicago's acrid June air.

8:55 on the Mount Glockenspiel El is a bustle of reprobates, yuppies, "children-of-a-lesser-financial-bracket" students, and, of course, the happy plebes like Deric. A rather deviant station, Mount Glockenspiel, so Deric always received leering glances of grime. Wooden staircases led down to the street. With long strides in a maze of side streets, he got to the Vincenzo Junkyard. It was puny, and sold old auto parts, toys, and other metallic things in which a bohemian would love to indulge their gluttony. Deric only cared for his work. Strong hands and back, but weak head work. If he got that promotion, he could pick his own hours and be part of that community theatre production of "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Vinny Jr. looked at his swatch. 8:57.

"He is either on the dot, or two minutes late!" he thought. "Papa is annoyed. Mama says to leave him; who would work for minimum wage at this kind a' work."

The red flannel robe was tightened around Jr. A quiet, nervous type, who was oft known to give sincere smiles, he was just "released" on summer break. At 16, he was normally fucked up as usual in mid-America. All the places he had hoped for a summer job did not answer. Typical in '92. Despite the bullheadedness of nosy relatives and parents, he would eventually survive. Ah, well, he had a summer of hanging out and obligatory piccolo practicing.

Jr. tried hard not to clench his fists or roll his eyes as Mama spouted.

"Now remember, after practicing you have to, I stress, have tooooo, find a job. Look at me! GOD DAMMIT! WHEN THE FUCK are you gonna GROW UP!? I got to go meet the old man at Standee's, then go around for shit to sell to those stupid men who slum around here. Since we're gonna be gone, you do like your daddy says: Watch Deric. God forbid!"

Jr. nodded, giving Mama his little-boy eyes. Ever obedient, but they both knew different.

"I don't mean to be so hard …"

"I know, mom. Just, I sometimes think …"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Sometimes I just don't get you, Jr.!" she sighed. "I better go before HE has a major coronary. Remember—PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE! What have I always said to you?"

"Oy," Jr. thought, then said with eyes to the ground, "Lots, I guess."

"Lots, huh? You little fucking asshole!" Jr.'s Mama had her own special way of bringing her son to realization by cutting him down in a voice that had both gritted teeth and pushed lips. After this loving comment, she knocked him across the chops; when she was about to do it again, Jr. surprisingly enough blocked and grabbed Mama's fat hand. Holding it aloft, Jr. threw the hand down in utter contempt.

"All right, fine, I'll play the role of your little parrot/puppet and spew what you want to hear, Mama." Jr., too, had his own special way of enunciating every word with what he thought was proper inflection.

"No! Motherfucker, I don't want to hear it!" Mama tried to get out of the kitchen, but to no avail.

"But you're gonna!" Jr. screamed, blocking her path with his young arm, using his other arm to violently turn her in his direction. Mama's head thrust forward, almost hitting Jr.'s forehead. Hot hands were then thrown upon her shoulders. Jr. got in her face. "Let me see, how does it go again? Hmmm? Ah yes, I know! 'The worst thing in this rotten world we live in is wasted talent.' There, I said it!" He was sobbing now. "I am not a waste! Your problem is you think you're a waste; you're not! Stop pushing me, or so help me God I'll smash my piccolo over your head, then piss on your sorry-ass grave, because you'll die a fuckin' martyr. Hey, and since the piccolo is broken, I can't play it at the funeral, now can I?" Jr. felt a huge blow to the back of his head, like a lash which slowly capitulated into a dull, hot flash of sudden blindness.

"You gonna talk to Mama like a bastard, I'll treat you like one, you little pansy!"

"Vinny, don't!"

"Shut up! You like this faggot son of yours treating you like this?" He threw a Tupperware mug at Jr. In his rage, he missed terribly. "I don't think so, Flo, not under my fuckin' roof! Now we're late, you're didn't have breaky [his sugar-coated term for breakfast], and Tony is waiting at the garage for us. As for you, Little Vinny Garland, DO what your Ma tells ya, or I'll kick you outta this house so fast you'll never know what hit ya! Am I clear? ARE WE CLEAR?"

Mama slowly and gravely said, "I think he is, Vinny."

"For his sake, he better be," Vinny Sr. grunted, then adjusted himself and proceeded to break a little foul wind.

Through the back door which led into the kitchen, Deric entered with impeccable timing.

"Look who decides to show up now at ten after!" Mama oozed with sarcasm and shoe fly pie. Vinny Jr. couldn't even look up. Deric thought that maybe something was amiss, and gave a "devil-may-care" smile as only he could.

"Sorry I'm late. Trains, you know. Ha!" Deric guffawed.

"Yeah, yeah. You know what you've gotta do, and so do you, Jr.! Come on, Flo, we gots to get going."

"Whatever. Anyway, bye, son." Flo's voice dropped to a wrenchingly lower octave than usual. She slammed the door.

Jr. looked at his beautiful Deric and burst into bitter tears of shame. Dery's large, strong arms held him close and rocked him close to his heart.

"I hate them so much sometimes," Jr. whispered out.

"I know, I know." Deric wiped away his tears and started to caress Jr.'s locks. "What can I … do?"

"Just tell me that everything's going to be all right, please."

"Okay."