Explain what? said Box.
I forget, I said, and began to pee.
I emptied myself entirely, then we departed. The main room was dazzled in sunlight now. World’s Smallest Married Couple. Freaks Past and Present. Kiss them goodbye, Nicky-O, Coffin said. He produced a set of handcuffs, I stretched my wrists to receive them but at the last moment he changed his mind; allowed me to exit uncuffed.
Rolling downtown in the unmarked Fiesta was a joyride. Except that the doors had no handles and the windows did not open, nothing spoke of custody. No cuffs, no bars to turn the back seat where I was placed into a cage, not even the crackle of a dispatcher, fighting through radio static. Instead the radio was tuned to Top Forty pop: “Billie Jean,” “She’s A Beauty,” “What A Feeling.”
Reality was suspended, for now. For as long as this drive lasted, I remained in a bubble, and none of the dread words—trafficking, conspiracy, mandatory—meant what they meant. Look at us, I thought, we could almost pass for confreres, three men in a motor out for a spin, zooming the waking city while crappy music played— crappy, yes, but crap we were all at home with, crap we liked, and shared. South of 42nd Street, Laura Branigan came on Z100 (WHTZ), singing “Gloria.” Straightaway Coffin started to sing along, loud and flat. Gloria, you’re always on the run now. Half-swiveled in his seat, he shouted back at me, You like this song, Nicky-O? Very good, I said.
You hear that? said Coffin to Box. Nicky likes this song, he thinks it’s very good. Coffin slapped a drumbeat on the dashboard. Turn her up, he said. What you think, Nicky, shall we turn her up?
Why not? I said.
So Laura was revved to maximum yowl, and Coffin was bopping and juking, Think they’ve got your number, and he gestured to me to sing along, goading me, mocking, he was not really my friend, I think they’ve got the alias, which I was sorely tempted to do, that would show him, you’ve been living under, but no, on balance, I thought better not, however loud the trumpet fanfares blared and the synths were a cavalry charge and Laura was bursting a lung there, Feel your innocence slipping away, though really, what harm if I did sing along, sotto voce, I don’t believe it’s coming back soon, or just mouthed the words, what harm?
An excerpt from the book CORNER BOY: Loitering New and Old by Nik Cohn. © 2026 by Roadburns, Inc. published by ZE Books on October 6, 2026.
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