The Bottle Babies
by P. A. Farrell
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
“What are you going to do with it?” I wasn’t too sure I wanted to try any of this, and I wanted some reassurance from my mother. Once the Butcher had touched anything, there was no telling how many microbes it harbored in its folds.
“I’m going to cook it.”
“How do you know what to do with it?”
“The woman at the social services department cooking program had something like this.” Poor women had been invited to a cooking program at a local social services facility. There they would discover new ways to stretch their food budgets and to use newer, inexpensive foods they’d never eaten before. My mother, wanting to be the best she could as a cook for us, went to the classes. But I never knew what she learned there because she never discussed it — and she was a terrible cook. Another topic not explored.
Oh, well. If social services said it was something to eat, I guess we wouldn’t all be going to heaven that night, I thought. Right? God, I sure hoped she was right.
My mother had never eaten broccoli. All of us looked at this alien vegetable not knowing what she’d do with it. How did you prepare it? What did it taste like and would we even like it? Was this broccoli safe to eat?
Remembering that the Butcher had given it to us, we decided to dive in and take a chance. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything like that dreadful kale my sister loved so much. Just the thought of kale made me think I was being forced to eat something as punishment. It tasted like hay you’d feed to horses, although I’d never tasted that. I hated kale.
Well, that night we were initiated into the world of broccoli eaters. It was green, limp, overcooked and not particularly interesting. One bite and I totally understood why Mossy detested the green thing of a vegetable.
I’m sure the Butcher expected that, in the future, he would receive some sort of small favor in return. If the mobsters managed to live by that code, he could, too. I was the only one exempt from his tit-for-tat method of doing business. I have no idea why I received this exemption. When he met me alone on the street, he gave me a few nickels or dimes, which I had to hide from my mother.
As for Mossy’s rages, fortunately, I was never the target. He always quieted down a few notches whenever I was around. I avoided him like the plague he smelled like. Mostly, the other men would caution him about my presence.
“Hey, stop it. Can’t you see there’s a young girl here?”
He’d respond, but reluctantly. Making growling noises or muttering to himself, he never threatened me, and he never chased me away. But I always, wisely, kept my distance. If I saw him in the alley, I’d give him a wide berth or turn around and go in another direction. No sense tempting fate and, besides, as I said, he smelled awful.
I avoided him, barring the exceptional occasion when I’d be the designated Chinese food buyer from the second-floor restaurant right next to Mossy’s lair. Trips past Mossy, circling around the heap of a smelly man, was one activity I didn’t endure with anything but utter disgust and a large measure of fear. I was afraid of him even though the Bottle Babies had warned him regarding his words or actions when I was nearby. I’d never go near his pile of cardboard willingly. Once in a great while, as I said, my parents would decide that we’d have a special treat: chicken chow mein. If ever there was a pathetic dish, this was it. It was like glop with bits of rubber bands — the chicken — thrown in.
Who was the designated person to fetch this delight in a metal beer container from the Chinese restaurant up the alley? You guessed it: it was me. Given the small kettle and one dollar, I would work my way cautiously up the alley and tiptoe past Mossy’s garbage heap. Then I’d quickly run up the huge metal fire escape staircase to the kitchen door of the restaurant.
Standing on the ledge of the doorway, I’d wait and, as I did, visions of the tales of white slavery ran through my head. I’d heard my mother talk about the opium dens of her youth, which worked out of Chinese restaurants, and how women were doped and sold. Here I was waiting until a kitchen supervisor noticed me. It seemed an eternity. Would I be sold? Did they sell children? The entire kitchen staff stopped momentarily to gaze at this little white girl with the container. Then they’d all go back to chopping vegetables with shining cleavers.
The man stood a short distance from me and asked, “What you want?”
A bare minimum of conversation ensued. The transaction had been one the supervisor knew from previous purchases, so it made it easier for me.
Holding out the container, I’d say in a tentative voice, “Chicken chow mein,” and with the other hand, I’d fork over the crumpled dollar bill. Within minutes, he’d return with the container filled with the chow mein and an additional paper bag containing a carton of white rice and a few fortune cookies.
The final bit of this transaction would be him handing an almond cookie to me. Smiling broadly, he’d offer it. “This for you.” I’d thank him, and now I’d have to face the near-terrifying part of my mission.
The black staircase glistened a bit as it stood before me here two-stories up. I’d have to prepare myself for the trip down. It was never easy. Darkness shrouded the entire flight of stairs, and I’d have to steel up my courage not only to walk down the two stories, but in the dark. The dark part was probably more of a deterrent than the fact that I was so far up.
“Oh, please feet, don’t trip,” I’d be whispering to myself. If I talked, it made it easier, so I began a conversation of one in a childish attempt to ramp up my courage.
“Now it’s OK, he’s sleeping down there, and you can get around him quietly and quickly, and he’ll never know. So, do it now, slowly on tiptoe, if you have to. You can do it.”
Down the darkened staircase I’d make my way. God, I had to pass that awful smell again. His stronghold was just a little to the side of the bottom of the stairs, and I’d have to pass very close to where he surely must be; he never left that place. Oh, my God, the cardboard just moved. Was he going to get up and start spitting and yelling at me?
“Please, God, if you help me, I promise to be good. Come on, it’s OK, he moved, but he’s not getting up,” I whispered again as I stood, as though turned to stone for a few seconds, watching the cardboard for signs of life. But I managed to do it; Mossy didn’t come out of his den, and I ran down the dark alley with cinders flying behind me.
It was always dark. I will admit it, I’m afraid of the dark. Everything looked like spooks or ghosts or people hiding. I couldn’t wait to get home as quickly as my legs would take me. I was scared, and my heart raced. I prayed I wouldn’t be stopped by something or someone, but I couldn’t know and that raised my level of fright.
The cinders were irregular in size and shape and my feet twisted in my thick shoes and my ankles bent as I tried to run the course, hoping I wouldn’t fall. Falling would ensure yet another scar on my legs. I’d have to make it and not fall. “If I fall, someone might come after me.” The fear was rising even as I ran, stumbled and felt the pain in my ankles from the effort.
Several large clinkers I hadn’t seen in the darkness caught the edges of my shoe and I felt myself reeling to the left. Now I was going to fall and I knew I mustn’t fall; everything would splatter over the alleyway. Struggling to hold my precious cargo upright and pulling my leg to the side, I managed to steady myself almost in mid-air. Landing hard and feeling the shock of the ground on the soles of my feet, I continued what seemed like a mile run but was merely a half-block.
The beer pail was swinging at my side and the paper bag with the cookies and rice was clutched tightly to my chest, but not too tightly, as I ran. I was out of breath when I approached the gate. I swung around it and forcefully push the door to get inside the house. Once inside, I threw the lock as fast as possible. I’d made it again and nothing had gotten me.
Thank God, another safe trip for Chinese food. Mission accomplished; food delivered. Why did I have to go? Didn’t they know how scared I was? Yes, the bookies were up in the bar, and if I yelled, Lefty might come out to help, but suppose I couldn’t yell?
Each time I go to a Chinese restaurant now, I am always reminded of that night and Mossy and the trip down the alley. Now it brings a smile to my face, but that night I was in terror.
Copyright © 2023 by P. A. Farrell
