Joey

I fill my breaks walking. I hop off the loading ledge behind the liquor store and walk to McDonald’s on the corner for a coffee.

A cigarette on the way back and then stock beer until five.

Not yesterday. Yesterday I saw Joey Gavin loading his car with groceries across the street at the Pick ‘N Save. I stood at the edge of the loading ledge gawking. I was a child the last I saw him. His arms were just as thin but now his shoulders hunched. His head threatening to slip down the front of him and roll across the parking lot.

I hadn’t thought of Joey fucking Gavin since eighth grade and here I am thirty-six remembering yanking his pants down in the school yard and him falling, banging his head off the asphalt. I yelled, Let’s see if Joey’s got a joey! to every child in the recess yard. Monica Donovan only glared and turned away. Joey was scrambling to get his underwear and trousers up, head bleeding away.

It just wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Me a hockey player and him a twerp reading Greek mythology alone at recess. But he got the Valentine from Monica in his homework cubby. Where the fuck was my Valentine? I made her one with the stupid buttons and macaroni and construction paper. You rock my boat, it read and I drew a sailboat underneath with two stick figures holding hands. Signed Two back and one over; my seat in class; Joey two over on the other side.

A crow screeched above him on the power line. He flinched, dropped a bag sending oranges all over. A poor mess and maybe I helped make it.

Sean Devlin is a Milwaukee-based writer and high school English teacher. His work has appeared in a few journals, such as Cardiff Review and The Knight's Library Magazine.