Mickey pulled his ratty old jacket tighter around himself as he stepped out of the taxi onto the filthy streets of 12th Street’s skid row.  Nightfall was coming and with it another chilly spring rain.  The air smelled like cigarettes and blood.  This was the place.

  It was an awfully rough neighborhood to be looking for a tailor but Mickey had been in the market for a new coat for the rare occasion he had to meet with an investor.

“Watch where you’re walkin’, you mobbed up draft dodgin’ goomba,” a gruff voice growled up from the pavement. 

There, slumped against a brick wall laying across half the sidewalk, was a pitiful tramp.  He was probably about fifty but he looked like he’d aged a hundred years in just the last ten.  The bum limply held a mason jar in his hand, half full of what smelled like turpentine.

“Better ditch that moonshine before you end up in the slammer, bud.  Or are you headed for the dump with the rest of the trash on the curb?” Mickey said with a sneer.

“Better than where you’re headed, you gutless crook,” the tramp replied taking a swig from his jar.

Mickey’s jaw clenched and he sharply inhaled through his nose.  He looked down at the bum and narrowed his eyes.  Turning away, Mickey sighed, “You look a little cold, pal.”

“I don’t feel it,” the tramp said.

“It’s gonna get worse tonight, you oughta get inside.  Beat it, okay?”

“Pah!” the tramp spat, “Oh I suppose you’ll put me up for the night?  I’ll be fine.”  The ragged bum shook the mason jar aggressively toward Mickey, spilling some of the foul smelling liquid onto himself.

   A quavering voice floated from a shop down the street, “Mickey!  What are you doin talkin’ to that idiot?”  A diminutive old man with coke bottle glasses and shaking hands shuffled over to the two of them.

“Mr. Lazzari, good to see you, I knew I was in the right part of town,” Mickey said with a smile.

The tailor instinctively straightened up Mickey’s collar and cuffs, “You’re gonna have to use some of that money of yours to buy a map, Mickey.  Spend your time wandering around in the wrong neighborhood long enough and I’ll be fittin’ you for the last suit you’ll ever wear.  At least you’d stay still for the measurements.”

Mickey laughed, “I’ll get right on that.”

The tramp, feeling himself being ignored, grunted loudly and griped, “You can straighten his clothes up but he’ll always be a crooked draft dodgin’ mobbed up good for nothin-“

Mickey’s eyes flashed with anger as he reached into his pocket, “Look pal, you can call me a lot of things and I ain’t gonna so much as blink about it but if you call me a draft dodger one more time I just might-“

Mr. Lazzari put his gently trembling hand on Mickey’s wrist,  “1915, two years before you shipped out that drunk fool was already volunteering with the British in Africa.  He went through 7 hours of hell holding off the German forces at the fort in Gurin.  Never was quite the same after he got back.”

Mickey’s grip loosened and he took his empty hand back out of his pocket.

The three of them fell into silence as the sky began to turn its first shades of crimson.  The sun sank beneath the skyline and in the growing darkness the air took on a heavy chill.

“Is my coat done, Mr. Lazzari?” Mickey asked coldly.

“Yes, Mickey, I’ll bring it right out-“

“That won’t be necessary.  Give it to him.  I’ll be back in two weeks for a new one in my measurements.  You know I’m good for the money.”

“Mickey are you sure-“ Mr. Lazzari began to protest but it was too late.  Mickey was already walking to the corner and hailing a cab.

The tramp sat slumped to one side mumbling to himself.

“Very well then,” the old tailor said to himself as he shuffled back to his shop, “Whatever makes you happy.”