Crenshaw

24

The next day, we dropped my mom at her part-time waitress job. Before she got out of the car, she looked at my dad and said, “We have to apply for assistance, Tom.”

“We’ll be back on our feet before they deal with all the paperwork,” he said.

“Still.”

“Plus we probably make too much money to qualify for help.”

“Still.”

They looked at each other for a few long seconds. Finally my dad nodded.

We went to an office called Social Services to find out about help. My dad filled out lots of forms while Robin and I sat on hard orange chairs. Then we went to three hardware stores, where my dad put in applications for work. My dad grumbled about all the gas we used up. To cheer him up, I said maybe we could feed the car water instead. He laughed a little then.

“Not having enough work is tough work,” my dad told my mom when she joined us in the car after her shift. He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, like he was facing a birthday cake with too many candles.

“Dad?” I said. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“Me too, buddy,” he said. “Me too.”

“Almost forgot,” my mom said, reaching into her tote bag. “I grabbed some of the bagels that the chef was about to throw out.” She pulled out a white paper sack. “They’re pretty stale, though. And they’re pumpernickel.”

“Well, that’s a start,” said my dad. He stared out the window. After a moment, he clapped his hands. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road. Guess I can’t stall any longer.”

My mom touched his shoulder. “Are you sure about this, Tom?” she asked. “I get my paycheck tomorrow. We could go to the food pantry. Or the shelter.”

“Nope. I got this.” He smiled, but it didn’t look like a real smile to me. “I’d rather do a little performing than stand in another endless line at some office, waiting for a handout.”

We drove to the back of the restaurant. My dad found a nice clean box in the Dumpster.

“Are you making the begging sign?” I asked him. He’d been talking about it off and on with my mom since our money was stolen.

“Given that I’ll be singing for our supper,” he said as he tore the box into pieces, “I prefer to call it a request for gratuities.”

“What’s a gratuity?” I asked.

“A tip. Money you give someone like a waiter,” my mom said. “When we were young, your dad and I used to be street performers, before we had regular gigs. Lots of musicians do it.”

“I’ve got this down to a science,” said my dad. “First off, you need a cardboard sign. Then you need a busy intersection. The best corners have long stoplights.”

“It might not hurt to take Aretha,” my mom said.

“People love dogs,” I told my dad. “I bet you’ll make a lot more money with a dog.”

“Can I borrow a marker, Jackson?” my dad asked.

I handed him my blue marker. “That guy on the corner by Target? He has a puppy.”

My dad studied a cardboard rectangle. “No prop puppies.”

“Write ‘God Bless,’ at least,” said my mom. “Everybody writes ‘God Bless.’”

“Nope. As it happens, I have no idea what God is up to.”

My mom sighed.

My dad scribbled something on the cardboard, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. He held up the sign and asked what we thought.

I didn’t answer right away. In second grade, my dad got a D in penmanship, which is how you make your letters. He did not improve with age.

“What’s it say?” I asked.

“‘THANK YOU.’”

“Looks a lot like ‘THINK YOU.’”

He shrugged. “Even better.”