Chapter 21
Back in the Day
After topping off the gas tank, I take a leisurely ride through the neighborhood where I grew up. The housing looks even worse than it did when I lived here. Sagging houses shedding their paint, laced together shoes hanging from telephone wires and yards littered with bikes, children’s toys and beer cans. Seattle forgot the Cedar River suburb in the 70’s before my birth. Kids still hang out in the ancient playground, most of them teenagers passing joints or drinking cheap liquor the way I used to. In fact, if I got out of the car, most folks around here would recognize me on sight. This area still belongs to Kingfins. And to me.
Police rarely patrol here, coming only when they’re summoned and generally an hour after the fact. Even the patrols are meaningless because precious few officers are willing to get out of their cars in neighborhoods like mine. As a result, I feel perfectly comfortable smoking the honey-dipped blunt I left MadBlack’s place with. The sensamillia smoke whirls around in my chest and I’m beginning to feel at peace. I’ve got the urge for some music, so I pop in my CD of The Temptations, the one I always deny being the owner of. If anyone gives me grief about it, I simply inform them that one of my girls left it in my CD binder. This trick never fails because no one who knows me could imagine this sort of music appealing to me, but it does.
My mother loved Motown, so the soundtrack of my earliest childhood memories consists of The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, The Supremes, Stevie Wonder and even The Jackson 5. She loved the inspirational sound, told me that the music gave her wings which allowed her to rise out of the poverty we endured together. Contrary to what you might be thinking, my mother was not black. She was the daughter of a white dairy farmer from Wisconsin. My father was black and this music is how they related to each other. It’s even how they met at a club in Detroit decades ago. Neither of them are alive today, but listening to their music always connects me to them because I imagine wherever they flew off to when they left this world has a disco to beat any they ever danced in while they were alive.
As I cruise back past the playground, nearly halfway through my blunt, I notice a couple kids sitting on the merry-go-round. They’re eating burgers from some fast food chain, but I can’t tell which one from this distance. It dawns on me that I’ve forgotten to call around to find a date for lunch. Got so wrapped up in reminiscing that it completely slipped my mind. I find my phone, scrolling through the names on my list to find a suitable companion to dine with.
“Hello?” she chirps, picking up after the second ring.
“Lolinda!” I’m hoping she’s not busy, “How you doing, baby girl? Been awhile since we got together so I thought I’d call you up so we could change that.”
“Percy Straight,” her voice has always had such a sweet tone, high and mellow, the same way I feel right now, “You old dog! I’d love to see you! You in the neighborhood?”
“Well, if you’re still living over in Canton Gardens, I’m awful close.” I’m pleased she’s so positive, not catty at all. “Had some business to take care of earlier then decided to take a drive through Cedar River and have a look at the old hood. Brought back a whole lot of good memories, one of ‘em being you.”
She giggles. “Such a charmer you are. Probably playin’ me, but I don’t mind it as long as it gets me your company. You want to go out right now?”
“Yeah.” I can’t help grinning. “Maybe get a bite to eat, talk about old times, catch up on things. How you feel about that?”
“Sounds wonderful, baby.” I can hear young voices in the background. “Can you give me a few to get ready? I’m lookin’ like a mess and I’ll need to call Shawnita over to watch Devon and Emmy. They’re about ready for naps any way so it should work out real nice.”
“Go ahead and do that, no hurry,” I reassure her, having fully forgotten about her little ones. “Gonna give me a call when you’re ready for me to pick you up?”
“I will. See you soon, Perce!”
“Ok, you be thinking about where you want to eat.”
She agrees and hangs up, leaving me with some more time to kill. I’m feeling sociable and I’m half-tempted to call Philly or one of the boys so we could shoot the breeze to pass the time, but I don’t want to badly enough to actually have to listen to their bitching or bragging which is what most of them will be wanting to do. At this moment, negativity is the last thing I’m in the market for. Had enough of that this morning and last night. Time to enjoy myself before I’ve got to go deal with the whole Knucklehead business at Lanky Joe’s.
Turning down Pineway Avenue I spot an old favorite place of mine. It’s a corner shop, maybe what you’d call a bodega or convenience store. Its name is as simple as the store itself: Pineway Market. I pull my ride up alongside the curb and head inside where the familiar chime greets me as I open the door. The same smells are here: hot dogs cooking, buttery popcorn and some strange scent that I long ago decided must come from incense that’s burned after the place is closed for the day. Not too much traffic in here right now, but the place looks as it always has – rows of canned foods, sauces, chips, cookies and along the walls, coolers of beer, soda and other drinks. As a kid, I’d get sent down here to buy things for my mother, sometimes even cigarettes. The old man who runs the place never hassled me over that because he knew my folks well. Hell, he knew most of the neighborhood by name back then. I imagine he still does.
While there are grocery stores within walking distance of Cedar River, most people still patronize the smaller businesses simply because they’ve been coming here their whole lives. I stole my first beer here, a tallboy of Old Milwaukee. I ended up feeling so damn bad that I came back and paid Juke, the store’s owner and only cashier, to ease my conscience. He probably knew why I handed him the money because he’s always been an ace at spotting shoplifters, but he never did give me any trouble over it. That’s the one and only time I ever stole from a store, even though a lot of my friends back in the day used to try smuggling 40’s out in their pantlegs from time to time. They almost never got away with it and when they did, I usually chewed them out on Juke’s behalf.
Juke’s not his real name, of course. I believe it’s ‘Kim Sang Jook’ or something like that – a Korean name. He came to Seattle from Seoul as a teenager and set up Pineway Market in his early thirties. His hair’s gray now and there’s no telling how old he is, probably in his seventies at least, but there’s still a certain spryness to him. He’s checking someone out right now so I meander through the aisles picking up a few things. I’m thirsty so I grab a can of Pepsi, then grab a sack of beef jerky, some Funions and a few packs of Dentyne Ice. Remembering Lolinda’s kids, I also get some M&M’s and a couple packages of gummy worms for them since there’s not a kid alive who doesn’t love gummy worms. Not that I’ve met, at least.
After Juke’s done checking his customer out, I make my way towards his counter. Behind him is a wide assortment of cigarettes, magazines and different types of collectible card games and sports cards. Rumor has it that in the back he’s got even more goods he’ll offer you once he knows you well enough. Special herbal teas, hand rolled joints, cheap pistols and a wide assortment of porn videos that probably aren’t legal. This stuff he wraps discretely in brown paper for those he trusts enough to sell it to.
“Hey you, Percy!” His smile’s huge, but speaks of limited access to dentistry as a child in Seoul. “How you been, boy? Long time, no see!”
“That’s true, Juke.” I grin at him, laying my goods on his counter. “Real long time since I been in the neighborhood. How’s business treating you these days?”
“Oh, you know.” He expertly totals my purchases with one hand, still looking at me through the thick lenses of his glasses as he talks. “There’s the ups, there’s the downs. People still buy, though. How ’bout you, Percy? Business good for you, too?” He winks at me and I remember the man still probably believes me to be a pimp.
“Ups and downs, like you said,” I nod. “Just got to keep your head up and make that profit where you can. Hey, how about adding a box of those Marlboro green packs. 100’s if you got ‘em.”
“You know I got ‘em!” His face lights up, delighted to be increasing my total. “I got lots of things, Percy. All you got to do is ask about ‘em. You tried my spicy pickles, yet?”
Oh, the famous spicy pickles of Pineway Market, each one pierced with a stick the way a corn dog is. Sweet and tangy with a swirl of intense spices I’d never be able to identify. Of course, Juke knows I’ve tried them and, like everyone else, I love them. He makes batches of them himself and almost everyone with a strong enough stomach buys one from time to time.
“You know, I think that sounds like a good idea.” I make sure to look as if the decision took some consideration. “Yeah, hit me with one of those.”
He spins around, plucks one from the vat of them he keeps behind the counter and rares back like he’s going to throw it straight at me. For a moment I’m ready to duck, then he bursts into high-pitch peals of laughter.
“You said hit you with a pickle, right?” His dark eyes glitter with mischief. “So I throw it at you!”
“Juke, you crazy old fool,” I joke with him. “Had me going there for a minute. Good to see you’re not letting age get to you.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, his expression serious. “Ole Juke never gonna get elderly or nothin’ like that! I got this market to run and people to be serving every damned day. Can’t be letting the arthritis stop me or the world get a brother down.”
“That’s good to hear, Juke, good to hear.” I fork over my cash as he bags what I’ve bought. “You’re a fixture in the community and we all need ya.” I take a bite of the pickle, the flavors reminding me of so many days gone by. “Damn, Juke! These things are just as good as they ever were! I don’t know how you do it. You gotta get these things marketed to the whole country some day. Let folks all over enjoy them. You’d be a millionaire, I’m telling you.”
“What?” Juke’s tone is sharp, his brow knitting darkly. “No way, Jose! That’s my mother’s secret recipe! No way can I let some crazy big company have the secret. You probably right, people love the spicy pickles, but that’s what keep them coming back here all the time instead of going to big nice store like Wal-Mart or Safeway. Business depend on these spicy pickles, Percy. I give away the recipe and they be in every store and then no one come buy from me any more!”
He gives me my change and hands me my bag. I continue eating the spicy pickle, chewing and nodding in agreement. Old Juke has always been a smart cookie. That’s why he keeps that sawed-off shotgun behind the counter. In all these years I’ve been visiting, he’s never had one successful hold-up despite numerous attempts, mostly by people who aren’t from Cedar River and don’t know his reputation.
“It’s like how Starbucks never give out the secret of its good coffee.” He tells me in the manner one might address a student. Suddenly I’m reminded of Mister Miagi from the Karate Kid movies and I almost snicker. “Good business is about making money. To make good money you got to be smart and never, ever give away things that give you edge over competition. Everybody try to make a buck off you, but you–”
My cell starts ringing so he pauses while I flip it open. It’s Lolinda.
Author’s Note: We’ll get the ball back rollin’ now 
