This is in a house stuck in a row of houses across the street from a hovel of a bar where tatoos are faded into wrinkles and cigarette soot covers the surfaces of the patron faces, hairy arms, worn wedding bands from a life given up. The house is not wide. If one were to lay one way then another, the body would be contorted by the narrowness of the house. A ballgame was on the radio with the windows open to let the humid summer air circulate the stained, shear drapes in and out the windows. King Dick Lucca paced on the porch and fiddled with the locked door. He went to the open livingroom window, too narrow for his body. He leaned back against his old house, there in the old neighborhood he had not seen for years. He mumbled, “Daddy”.
The old man may have been in there but there was no answer.
The old man may have been sleeping. He may have been too drunk to answer. He may have been dead. King Dick Lucca waited a while. He left it at that. He would not call his daddy again.