A saint, that Alba, a real fucking saint. Freddy's always believed his mom would love the woman and his dad would love her cooking. They'll never meet her. They'll never meet Lawrence Dimick. Shit they might never meet their son again either. It figures the last fight he had with his old man (the patriarch one) about being a cop had everything to do with him being sent home behind a motorcade. Now they can't have even that.
But look at what you do have, Newendyke, he tells himself.
Freddy has everything he once wanted which isn't necessarily the same thing he wants now. It's what they say about being careful what you wish for. He doesn't understand how it could even be like this when he knows for certain he hasn't stopped loving Larry. He's never stopped loving Mr. White.
Finally he emerges, face freshly washed, shirt and trousers without a single crease. Freddy wants to look good for the man he adores, the man he followed across the border. He notices the TV and nods. He doesn't have to say thanks for shutting it off, it goes without saying. He's unaware of the old man's disgust.
"What place you got in mind," asks the kid as he searches for a pair of shoes. The polished leather kind.
no subject
But look at what you do have, Newendyke, he tells himself.
Freddy has everything he once wanted which isn't necessarily the same thing he wants now. It's what they say about being careful what you wish for. He doesn't understand how it could even be like this when he knows for certain he hasn't stopped loving Larry. He's never stopped loving Mr. White.
Finally he emerges, face freshly washed, shirt and trousers without a single crease. Freddy wants to look good for the man he adores, the man he followed across the border. He notices the TV and nods. He doesn't have to say thanks for shutting it off, it goes without saying. He's unaware of the old man's disgust.
"What place you got in mind," asks the kid as he searches for a pair of shoes. The polished leather kind.