two
buttons
of
his
midnight-‐blue
work-‐shirt
as
long
as
I
had
known
him.
A
greasy
nest
of
salt
and
peppered
chest-‐hair
puffed
from
his
open
collar.
In
the
middle
of
the
overgrown
mess
of
hair
nested
a
small,
gold
crucifix
on
a
thin,
gold
chain.
Sal
was
very
Catholic,
unless
it
blew
his
buzz,
or
inconvenienced
him
in
any
way.
“What’s
up,
pal?”
Sal
said.
He
had
known
me
since
Kindergarten,
but
only
ever
referred
to
me
as
“pal.”
His
eye
remained
fixed
on
Norman.
“Hey
Sal,”
I
said.
“What’s
this?”
He
asked.
“That’s
Norman.
I’m
trying
to
help
him
out.”
Sal
looked
at
me
as
though
Norman
was
a
Bengal
tiger
and
I
was
a
Ringmaster
reassuring
him
that
he
was
“fully
trained.”
“Got
a
little
mess
here
Sal,”
I
said,
opening
the
passenger
door,
exposing
the
pool
of
Norman’s
puke.
“You’re
kidding.”
Sal
said.
Now
he
looked
at
me
as
though
I
had
just
walked
out
of
his
mother’s
bedroom
with
no
robe
on
and
a
big
smile
on
my
face.
“I
wish,”
I
said,
“How
much?”
H