It is Tuesday in Queens and I am practicing elite level nothing. The plan is to push more units. The obstacle is me. I am the red tape, the closed sign, the coffee break that never ends.

I lean on a mailbox and the mailbox files for overtime

We lost Julietta over the weekend. 

She got herself shot, which is very on brand for someone who treated danger like room service. God rest her chaos. We had glorious days. An absolute teacher’s pet of the underworld. Hand raised, homework laminated, apple polished, extra credit stapled. If there was a rubric for menace, Julietta brought a binder. Rest that terrifying soul. And, for the record, Julietta still owes me seven bucks and half a pack borrowed “for research.” If ghosts grade on a curve, I expect an A-plus and my money back.

I tip my hat skyward, then put it back on before the pigeons unionize

TonyTheTailor glides past in a suit. From the top he is a breakfast skillet at high noon. That bald spot catches sunlight like a lighthouse for regret. I could land a model airplane on it and still have space for customs. He gives me the silent look that means numbers. I return the silent look that means soon

Peter is tending his hotdog stand, which is perfect because he’s been threatening sausages his whole life. He runs the cart like a boxing gym with condiments mustard in the southpaw, ketchup orthodox, onions only by unanimous decision. He names a traffic cone “Edgar” gives it a little hat, and argues with it about overtime. 

Milk drifts up jangling a key ring that belongs to licenses he no longer has. Everybody in Queens knows the lore...multiple DUIs and, yeah, he once shot a cop dead. The block whispers it like weather: chance of chaos with scattered sirens. So I keep him on non-contact duties: brand ambassador for nothing. 

Havana_james slides in like a rumor with sunglasses the size of studio apartments. She is not new. She is just getting accustomed to the life in Queens and it is getting accustomed right back. She waves at the undercover cop like he is a parade float and spells whisper in capital letters.

TonyTheTailor circles back. The bald spot now has a radiant glow that could tan a goldfish. He does not speak. He lets the glare do management. I nod like a man who intends to move mountains once he finishes sitting down.

The corner hums. Bus brakes sing. Deli bells ding. A philosopher argues with a parking meter about boundaries. The newsstand guy gives me the tiny nod that means he likes his kneecaps where they are. A kid asks if I am famous. I tell him I am locally inconvenient. He writes it down like homework.  

I raise my paper cup to the block. 

Here is the truth they never print. Real power is not the sprint. Real power is the stillness that looks like laziness and smells like discipline. It’s letting the sauce reduce. I’m a slow cooker with a criminal record.

It is a random Tuesday and I am slacking to get more. Tomorrow is unknown. Today I professionally loiter until the city taps out.

*after hearing his name, milk steps out of the local watering hole and lights up a smoke and takes a long drag and exhales*

while most of this information is accurate, if I wasn't some sort of great golden baby, I would have perished.  

Tony needs me and at the end of the day, YOU need me... if anything, I make you look good inside of our HQ because even though I am the black sheep, you know that, at the end of the day, I am the favorite.  

this is what happens when you are the younger and prettier mafioso... 

*milk puts out his smoke and then contemplates his next speech: "who the heck is FatTony"*