I can drive the truck and take deliveries downtown, like him.
I can quit school, like he did.
I’m not afraid of angry voices in the dark, snarling, “Sell, old man, while you still can.” I’m not afraid of Big George with the scar that made Maria cry. I don’t need him to walk me home, or push me back inside while he steps out.
Re-reloading his gun, I can hit a dozen cans in a row off the Driver’s Park fences, right from the back door. I taped a face on the last one. I won’t miss like he did.