The Son of Every Man

Chapter 4.2

Miguel tried not to appear hopeful as the kid took in his small apartment for the first time. He had been living a quiet life, and Gabe was his first visitor in months.

"It's so peaceful here."

"It's a little outdated," said Miguel quickly.

"If you think this is outdated, you should see where I live."

Miguel led him to the small galley kitchen. "Check out these appliances. Look at the sink. It's like a fucking time capsule in here. But I like it. Gives the place character."

The kid swayed slightly in place with his hands in his pockets. He gave Miguel a supportive smile, seemed unable to move his eyes away from Miguel's for a few seconds. He coughed and went over to the windows overlooking the port. As he walked near the back of a chair, he steadied himself against it. "I think I'm drunk."

"You sure about that? I've never seen a drunk person have a panic attack before."

Gabe turned around. He looked embarrassed. "I don't even know if that's what it was."

"But you're okay?"

He nodded. "What's your bedroom like?"

It seemed like a strange question, but Miguel was happy to show him, leading him back into the small adjacent room. "Not much space for anything besides the bed. There's a closet, though."

"I like it," Gabe said. He pointed at a poster on the opposite wall. "Who's that?"

"Diego Maradona—a soccer player from Argentina. He's a legend."

"You like soccer?"

"Yeah."

"Do you play?"

"I used to."

Gabe sat himself on the end of the bed. His feet dangled a few inches above the carpet. He was now facing Miguel. "Why did you stop playing?"

Miguel stayed put in the doorway. His present life suddenly seemed very boring now that it was under inspection. He wished he had a more interesting answer for the kid. "Man, I don't know. You get older, and some of the things you did when you were younger...you just don't do them anymore."

"How old are you?"

"I turned twenty-one last month." Now, finally, Miguel would capture that elusive number from Gabe. "How about you?"

"I'm eighteen."

Miguel tried to hide his surprise and his relief, but they must have shown up anyway, because the kid sort of smirked, saying, "I know, I look young for my age. It doesn't help that I'm small. I'll be nineteen in August."

"You're not that small."

The kid suddenly lay back, legs still hanging over the edge. His deep voice slurred and his eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. "I am. I'm short, like my father was short before me. At least he made up for it by lifting weights and looking strong. I don't even have that. It's fine. I made peace with it a long time ago. Anyway, you even said I was short, so you can't go back on it now."

"No I didn't."

Gabe kicked his legs. "You did. The first time I ever got out of the car, you said it. You said, 'Thought you would be taller.' Remember that? Don't worry, I wasn't offended."

Miguel scoffed. The kid was adorable. He hated the word, but it fit everything about the way Gabe languished on the bed, his voice droning dreamily along.

Gabe moved onto his side, looked sternly up at Miguel. "Are you just going to keep standing there like that?"

"Like what?"