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Outside the tavern, Mickey held the newspapers while Pablo tied his sneakers.  "How come you always wear Pro-Keds?" Mickey asked.  He wore Converse.
            "Well, son, I'll tell you," Pablo said, standing up.  "I wear 'em 'cause they make me run faster and jump higher."
            Mickey laughed.  "Remember we used to think that was true?"
            Pablo raised his eyebrows.  "It is."
            They started down the street.  A cab came towards them and stopped in front of the bar.  When the back door opened, Mickey trotted towards it, and said, "Hey, you wanna news?"
            A tall, handsome man in a suit stepped out.  Mickey froze, recognizing him immediately, and turned away.  His clearest memory of Tom Farrell was the night when he was five and, having the flu, puked on the floor before he could reach the bathroom.  Farrell, roused from sleep, found Mickey curled on the floor and beat him nearly unconscious.  Before going back to bed, he woke Mickey’s mother and told her to get the hell up and clean the mess.  
            "Hey, yeah, give me a paper."
            Mickey turned around, his head hung low, and held out a newspaper.  Farrell took out his wallet.  "What's your name?" he asked, fingering through his money.
            "John," Mickey muttered.
            "It's Michael."
            "Mickey," he corrected him. 
            Farrell smiled. "I guess you know who I am."  He held out a dollar bill.
            Mickey turned away as he dug into his pocket for change. 
            "No, keep it."
            "Thanks," Mickey said.  "See ya'."
            "Can I buy you a soda?" Farrell asked, stepping a little closer.
            "I just had one."
            "Have another," his father said in a slow, quiet way that Mickey had a trace memory of.
            Mickey looked over his shoulder.  Pablo leaned on a mailbox, watching.  "What about my partner?"
            "He can wait out here," Farrell said.
            Mickey held his breath for a few moments, feeling trapped, trying to think of a way out.  Maybe he should just run.  In the end, he went over to Pablo and handed him his papers.  "Be back in a minute."
            "You know that guy?" Pablo asked, looking over Mickey's shoulder at Farrell.
            Mickey shook his head.  "Be right back."
            They entered the bar.  Immediately, a woman in a red dress grabbed Farrell and kissed him.  "Tom Farrell, what on earth brings you here?" she blared.
            He held her by the waist at arm's length and said, "Just the hope of seeing you, Rose."  He kissed her and said, "Excuse me, a bit of business at the bar," with a wink.
            At the bar, Farrell grabbed the bartender by the elbow as he went by.  "Paul, Dewars double, straight up, and a Coke for my son here."
            "You don't want to buy him a Coke, Tommy.  I just gave him one."
            "But he's my son."
            The bartender sighed.  "Sure, sure, he's everybody's son."
            Mickey glared at him as he made the drinks and set them down in front of them.  Farrell handed him his glass.  "You know, you look just like your old man."
            Just then, someone called, "Hey, Tommy Farrell!" from across the bar.
            Farrell looked up.  "Hey, Bill! What're you up to these days?"
            Mickey watched him exchanging pleasantries with the man, probably an old drinking buddy. He studied Farrell’s profile. He didn't really think that he and Farrell looked alike.  Still, Mickey would be happy if he could look like him, be like him, when he grew up.  So confident, so popular.  Then suddenly, Mickey pictured that same face twisted with drunken, savage anger, as he had seen it so many times in his first eight years.
            "So, how's your mother?" Farrell asked, turning back to him.
            Mickey shrugged his shoulders and kept sucking Coke through a straw. "How about the others?" 
            Mickey shrugged again.
            "Daniel?"
            Shrug.
            "Margaret?"
            Shrug. "Okay."
            "And you, how old are you now?"
            "I'll be twelve next month."
            "Great, great," Farrell said.
            Mickey could tell that he wasn't really interested.  Farrell put the shot glass to his lips and flipped the scotch into his mouth.  He took a sip of water.  "So, where are you living now?"  Mickey let the straw fall from his lips and grinned.  "You're not supposed to tell me that, are you?"
            "No."
            Farrell smiled.  "Well, I could follow you," he said.
            Mickey shrugged his shoulders.  "I won't go home."
            Farrell thunked his glass down on the bar and stared into the boy's blue eyes with his own matching set for a few moments.  "I have to go now," Mickey said.
            Farrell stuck out his hand.  "I guess you wouldn't like to shake my hand," he said.
            Mickey knew that handshakes were very solemn, meaningful things for some people, but not for him.  He shook Farrell’s hand.  "Take care of yourself," Farrell said.  "I love you, son."
            "Okay, well, see ya."  Mickey felt both good and bad about not having more to say and would remind himself to think about the feeling later.
            Outside, he ran down the block to where Pablo was standing, holding out newspapers to passing cars.  "Hey, let's go," Mickey said.
            Pablo tossed him another piece of bubble gum.  "Who's that guy?"
            "Nobody," Mickey said.
They continued on their route. 

* * *

©2006 Sean O'Kane
Sean O'Kane is a native of Jersey City, NJ, where he continues to live.  He teaches freshman English at Rutgers, and is currently completing a collection of short stories and working on his first novel.  "Mickey" is excerpted from the short story "Paper Boys."