As we walk across the street, I give Ronnie a piece of my mind.
"That sure the heck was a 1946 Buick. Are you crazy?" I say, bangin' my hand against a pole.
"No Super would've died out there on the road like that," He says, slappin' the same pole. "It had to be an older one." I nod, agreein'.
"Hey, let's cop some food," Ronnie says, pointin' to the corner store. I dig my hand into my pocket, bringing up nuthin'.
"Ya got some change?" I ask, jabbing him in the ribs. He yelps then shakes his darn head. "Aw, you should go out on the streets sometime near the Bronks at night. See how much you can stand. Is cold all night." I shiver in the morning air.
"Ah." He pats a tree. "Don't your fancy mum got somewhere to put all dat money?"
"Ha. My mum wouldn't do nuthin' for her little boy." I say, kickin' some rocks. We turn the corner, leading us into a green park. "She out there riding on them boats in da islands, while I'm stuck in the city."
"The city ain't bad," Ronnie says, vaulting over a weathered bench.
"Have ya ever looked around, Ron?" I say, stopping him. "Have ya ever noticed the crummy job we have, working for them advertising people. Have ya ever noticed that we live the streets?" I say. Ronnie looks down sheepishly.
"I guess I look at the bright side too often." He says, bending down an' shoving his short pants down an inch.
"Well, have ya noticed that there is no sun, in dis city?" I say, looking up at the clouds. "All dere is, are clouds and buildings. Nuthin' bright about NYC," I scowl. "Only two mo' years till we get out of dis junkyard." I find the moon with my eyes. It hangs low, waiting for a chance fo' it to be full again.
"Two years, it ain't that bad," Ronnie says softly.
"My life ain't a TV show. I knew dat years ago," I say. I pat Ronnie's back an' start to walk. "An' I'm definitely not an actor."
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