“One and a quarter.”
He paid with a one, two dimes, and a nickle. It was offered as a pious man gives penitence. He wouldn’t have been out of place before an altar of the church. The clerk accepted the currency and parsed each piece into its compartment. He watched as his money returned to the fold and sighed on the inside. He took the brown paper bag and exited the store.
“Parsimonious fuckery,” he said, staring off toward the lake. He needed to walk several miles to return to the den he shared with three other men and two women. His sleeves hung loosely and draped over his hands like drags of meat at a marketplace. The bag became partially absorbed in his clothes. He was a walking rag. No pigeons flew in the open when the wind was high and he walked. People in overcoats stepped around him. His dominance of the sidewalk cleared a path to Michigan.
“I… I’m as tired as my old balls.”
The rains threatened him like everyone else did.
His knees wobbled when the wind rose up out of Randolph Street. He stepped behind a corner and inhaled. He inhaled several times. Two minutes, three minutes, seven. He pressed against the building. It felt to him like he was drowning. He inhaled again and stopped when he nearly dropped the bag onto the ground.
“Jesus, mother of Mercy. Jesus cry.”
The wind continued. He turned onto Randolph and walked east. He could feel Etta already. She always waited for him. They slept together, her with her large breasts to his back and his coat wrapped around her. He walked to Etta’s warmth.
The birds all stayed out of sight when the winds were bad. They hid in cracks and corners. Sometimes, some damn fool bird didn’t hide. It died.
His old coat was nice for hiding inside of. Himself and all manner of things. His old flask that he washed with gutter water. A turban of cotton. Candy from the store. Forks, spoons. A knife he found once by the yacht harbor. He took it, assumed ownership. His pants worked as pants and this season’s winter boots were rubber. Those he bought off of Rory, who wasn’t at the den this season. He died.
There were cars lined up at Michigan Ave. Eye to eye cars. He crossed between them. The crosswalk sign holders held up a hand and made him stop. There were kids in bright puffy jackets and their parents. There were runners in spandex. There were suits and more overcoats.
He walked under the crossway where it was dark, to the same building and the same gap between the concrete foundation pylons. He walked further in with his hands against the cold and wet walls until he saw the light from the fire. He looked for Etta first and saw her. She was bundled. Her hat was on down her face so that most of her eyes weren’t there. All the rest but Finch were around the fire.
He walked over to Etta and sat.
“Didja, didja get it?”
“Yeap, I got it here.”
He lifted the paper bag and handed it to Etta. She ripped it open and held the bottle in her hand. The aspirin clinked as she shook it.
She grinned wide.
“You’re good to me, Jeffrey.”
He leaned in and kissed her wrinkled temple.
“Remember to save the bottle.”