Moving with Flatbush

A few months after I ran into Flatbush on State Street that day, he called me at my dorm room. 731 Plymouth Court was the residence hall for my college, but each dorm was really a large loft with two bedrooms, common area, and kitchen. The building was beautiful, and people who saw my address on checks mistakenly assumed I was some up and coming Buppie with a South Loop address, as opposed to a broke student living with three other guys in overpriced campus housing.

“McCallum?”

“Yep. Who is this?” My roommates and I had just scraped together enough cash to satisfy the phone company they should reconnect our service. His call was the first time the thing rang in a few days.

“Flat.”

“You know your name is an adjective?”

“Funny. You always were a nerd.”

“How is the political game going?”

“It’s OK. Wanna meet the candidate?”

I was rereading Royko’s ”Boss”, and pictured Flatbush in some garish suit, pounding the pavement, ringing doorbells and canvassing votes for the party. The problem with Chicago was there was only one real party, so all of the competition came from within.

“I’m good. I see he’s getting his fair share of press.”

“Yep.”

“You really think he can beat the incumbent? I mean, when your Daddy was mayor, and now you are mayor, and let’s be honest, being Irish doesn’t hurt…”

“We’re gonna give it our best shot.” Flat switched gears. “Look, the reason that I’m calling is that I’m moving, and I need some help.”

Moving in February always sounds like fun. Chicago Februaries are known for their mild, balmy weather, chirping birds and good looking women wearing beachwear to the grocery.

“You leaving the place on Carpenter?”

“Naw. I left there a few months back. Brother Bi En Ali lost his job and couldn’t keep up his end of the rent.”

“Gotcha.”

“We’re moving from my father’s place in Harvey to my new spot in Hyde Park.”

“Where abouts?”

“Right across from Kenwood.”

I hesitated.

“C’Mon…I’ll feed ya. And I’ll buy the beer. You’re looking like you enjoy both.”
I agreed. Reluctantly.
That Tuesday, Flat picked me up in his ancient Jaguar from the dorm. We motored south, stopping at McDonald’s for breakfast. I figured the hash brown and eggs would stave off the sub zero temperatures that refrosted the car’s windows in the ten minutes we were in the burger joint.

“My father,” Flat started, as we kept rolling south, “is a trip. When I moved out of Carpenter, he offered to let me stay with him for a while ‘til I got on my feet.”

“That was cool.”

“Yeah, but with my father…I dunno. All he has left is this house. He used to own two furniture stores, a fish market, two corner stores, and a barbershop. He is probably the reason that I can’t work for someone else.”

“Sounds like a real entrepreneur.”

Flat’s face twisted. “I hate that word. Cats running around Hyde Park with no job, no money, just some damned business cards in their pocket, tellin’ everyone who will listen they are “entrepreneurs.” Please. My father was in business. Nothin’ fancy. I remember working with him, we’d be pullin’ catfish from the tank, clubbin’ ‘em, cleanin’ ‘em, processing them for sale. He had me help him lift that cheap ass furniture off trucks from who knows where and resell it at crazy credit terms…no, most entrepreneurs, as you call ‘em, never did no work. They just talked a lot and went to The Red Onion talking shit. My father made money.”

I grew slightly offended. “I like The Red Onion. It’s down the street from my house.”
Flat looked at me sideways. “How much money you got n you now?”

Ouch.

We pulled up to a small, well kept bungalow.

“Wait a minute…let me tell him I got somebody helping me.”

“How we gonna get your big stuff?”

“He got a truck. He wants my stuff out of his house so badly, he should let us use it.”

Should?

Man, it was cold. Flat had turned off the car, and a chill set in the ten minutes we were in the house. He came back out and had me follow him around to a side door.
We went inside. To the left, there were steps that led to the basement. To the right, three steps took you into the kitchen.

At the top of the steps, by the kitchen, was a man who so closely resembled Flatbush, there was no guessing who he was.

Flat grunted an introduction. “Bushmill, James. James, Bushmill. We gon’ get started now.”

The man shook my hand, grunted “How ya doin’?” and turned around.
Flat and I worked for over an hour, loading boxes from the basement into the Jag, and loading furniture onto an open truck parked in the alley in back of the house.

“Bushmill?” Flat called inside.

I heard something I couldn’t make out.

“Where the keys for the truck?”

I heard something else.

“We been through that. I got it loaded already. Where are the keys?”
Flat closed the door and trudged back to the garage. “We gotta charge the truck battery,” he announced. He disappeared inside the garage end emerged with two cables and a charger box.

“No idea how long this thing been sitting. We better let it charge for a bit. C’mon. We’ll go inside."

Once we got in and divested of our outerwear, we sat at the kitchen table. Bushmill was cooking something on the stove, some kind of meat. The aroma filled the house.

He flipped whatever was in the skillet onto a plate with some bread, and sat down.

“Ya’ll almost done?” he grunted between chewing.

“Yeah. We’re gonna run the truck down to my place. Emo and the baby are there. We’ll unload, and I’ll bring the truck back, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Bushmill looked up from his sandwich.

“My truck?”

“We been through this.”

Bushmill shook his head. “Why are you using MY truck? Don’t your friend have a truck?”

“He just came to help me. You knew I was using your truck. I told you I was using your truck. You aren’t using it. You want me out.”

Father leveled a look at son that would have shaken the dead.

“That’s your problem. You assume everybody is supposed to do for you. In this world, things cost, man. You just expect to use my truck…”

“You wanted me gone!”

“So now, you gonna take your stuff and leave? Using MY truck?”

“Do we have to have this conversation now?” There was an edge in Flat’s voice I’d never heard before.

“Look, I just want to move my things to my new place, and see my daughter, your granddaughter.”

“Yeah. What? You a father now? You think you a good one?”

“I’m good enough to where if my daughter were leaving home, she wouldn’t have to call her friends to help. I’d be the first person helping her move.”

“You never listened! You always wanna take advantage! Look, if you want to use my truck, it’s gonna cost you a bill. Just like if you wanna borrow the white man’s equipment.”

Flatbush shook his head. “I don’t HAVE a hundred dollars to give you. Can I give it to you next week?”

“No!”

“I have to feed my child!”

“Not my problem!”

“We already loaded the truck!”

“So?”
Flat was seething. I was looking out the window. Stay out of family matters.

“C’mon,” Flat said with disgust. Bushmill yelled some things at Flat’s back, but I couldn’t make them out.

We got in the Jaguar. Flat exhaled, and turned the key.

Nothing happened.

“Shit!” Flat exclaimed. “Too cold…”

“Can we bring the charger from the truck around front?”

“No outlets in front, no extension cord.”

“Oh.”

“Look, c’mon.”

We went back in the house, where Bushmill was drinking something, probably coffee, judging from the steam at the top of the cup.

“What you need?” he growled.

“A jump.”

“A hundred dollars.”

“Look, man, I’m not taking your truck. I just want to get my stuff and get outta here. I have to get my friend home.”

“Not my problem.”

Bushmill put down his cup and quickly twisted Flat’s arm, grabbing his car keys.

“Before this is over, you’re gonna respect me.”

Bushmill disappeared into a bedroom. When he emerged, he locked the door.

“It’s five o’clock,” he said. “I’m going out. If ya’ll still here when I get back, I’ma charge ya’ll a hundred to stay the night. Each.”

With that, he went out the front door, locking it behind him.

I didn’t know what to say.

Flat was all action.

“C’mon,” she said, putting on his coat.

“We’re locked in.”

“He went out the FRONT. We came in through the BACK. Back door is open.”
“He took your keys!” This was surreal.

“The truck keys still in my coat pocket. We’re going back to the city. NOW. Truck’s been charging long enough.”

We hotfooted it outside, where Flatbush quickly disconnected the charger. We got in the truck, which had a few years on even Flat’s Jag, but it turned over immediately, with a healthy roar.

“Good,” Flat muttered. “We need gas. There’s a station at the end of the alley. We outta here.”

Flatbush hit the accelerator, and we shot forward. We went the half block to the street and rolled into the gas station, where the truck died at the pump.

“Right on time,” I said, shivering. The heat hadn’t kicked in. Flat grunted.

“I’ll pay…you pump.”

Right when Flat went in to pay the attendant, a police cruiser pulled up. My mouth went dry. Everything aside, we’d just stolen a truck. It was so cold and the day so bizarre that the thought of a meal and some heat made jail appear to not be that bad.
I took the handle off of the pump and put it in the tank. The cop looked at me and got on his radio.

I squeezed the gas release and smelled the familiar fumes. The cop got out.

“This your truck?”

“My buddy’s. Well, his dad’s. He’s in there.”

The cop looked at the ground sadly.

“Yeah. These old ones. You guys got a leak.”

I looked below. Five bucks worth of gas had gone from the pump, into the tank, and was on the ground.

“Put a bit in the card,” the cop advised. “House close?”

“Half block up the alley.”

“You’ll probably make it back, but no further.”

“Oh.” Flat came out of the station.

“Keep warm!” The cop waved. He chucked, “Don’t light any cigarettes!”

I laughed weakly.

Flat got in the truck and I shared with him what had happened.

“Damn!” He started cranking the engine. Nothing.

“The cop said put some gas in the carb.”

“Where is that?”

“I can find it. C’mon.”

Fifty cents worth of gas later, the truck roared to life. Flat slammed it into gear and we shot off down the alley. The heat kicked in. The truck engine stalled.

We stopped at a light pole by the garage.

Well, we were stopped by the light pole by the garage. The impact wasn’t that bad.

The truck was made of steel. My head just hit the dashboard. Flat’s chest hit the steering wheel.We lived.

Flat got out, looked at the truck, and shook his head.

As we walked back into the house, it started snowing.

“What we gonna do?”

Flatbush was already prying open the bedroom door. Minutes later he emerged with his car keys.

“SOMEBODY gonna give us a damn jump.”

As we went outside, pickups with plows attached roamed the streets. A couple stopped, but they wanted fifty bucks for a jump. No dice.

We sat in the cold Jaguar, and I swear I saw Flat smile.

“You wanna call Emo?”

“House phone isn’t on yet.” This was before everyone and their mother had a cell phone.

“Irwin?”

“Ain’t home.”

“Brother Ali?”

“Out of town.”

Another truck came around. It was one of the guys from before.

“Ya’ll still here?”

“Twenty bucks is all I got,” Flat announced defiantly.

Was that pity? Humor? The old white guy got out of his truck and hooked his cables to Flat’s battery.

“G’wan and crank her over,” he said. “Generator’s pretty powerful.”

I started the car while Flat paid the guy. As the truck pulled off, I heard shouting.
Flat scrambled in the passenger seat.

“Drive man!” he hollered.

After this day? No coaxing was needed. As I put the Jaguar into drive, the tires crunched snow and we took off. In the rearview, I saw someone running down the street, shaking one fist and with something in his other hand.

“We need gas,” Flat explained, “but let’s not stop at the closest station.”

It was my turn to grunt as I swung the Jaguar northbound on Halsted. I didn’t care if we were on fumes. I wasn’t stopping til I saw the Chicago skyline. Old as hell, that jaguar’s new tires and healthy engine had us on 95th and Halsted in no time, and I stopped at the Amoco there.

Flat filled up the tank and said, “Harold’s?”

“Mild sauce. AND you promised beer.”

He pulled out his burnout cel phone and made the call.

“Who was that running behind us?”

“Bushmill.”

“Oh.”

When we reached his place, Emo and the baby were sitting up, watching television. She had placed a pan of water on the radiator to humidify the dry air.

“Here,” she gave Flat the baby. “I’ll go get your food and beer. I’m sorry. When you were late getting back, I knew there was some silliness.”

Flat had looked dejected, but holding the baby brightened him considerably.

We ate well that night, and even laughed at our misfortune.

A month later, Flat called and asked if I wanted to do some political work with him. I agreed. We spent the night tearing down the opposing candidate’s signs.

“Whatever happened to your stuff?” I asked.

“Man,” Flat put is hammer in his back pocket, “He saw his truck, and the next day, told the first guy walking down the alley he could have everything on the truck if he just took it away.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It is what it is.”

We went in search of more signs.

Daley beat Flat’s candidate in the election.