BO KNOWS

An ashtray smoked atop a laminate countertop in the shadow of a mustard-colored fridge. The dizzying patterned linoleum floor creaked as my mother paced back and forth. The twisted rotary phone cord dangled as she spoke and the cat pawed at it.

I stared into a black box playing grainy Saturday morning cartoons.

She hung up and said, “I have to take care of grandma today and your father has to work. Uncle Bo’s gonna take you for a while to the diner and the zoo. If he tries to take you anywhere else, you call me at grandma’s from a payphone.” She handed me a number on a bright yellow post-it note and a fistful of quarters that I shoved into my pocket.

I nodded.

A glossy red Honda Prelude rolled into the driveway from a street lined with bland station wagons, and faux wood panel minivans.

The radio and engine faded as he closed the door. The pop-up headlights closed into the hood.

At 6’4” and 280 pounds, Uncle Bo blocked most outside light in the doorway. He had a flattop haircut with a long rattail and wore a “BO KNOWS” Nike t-shirt. Striped tube socks emerged from Jordan high tops and stretched over massive calves.

My mother greeted him and said, “just straight to the damn diner. Then, go to the zoo. After that, come right home. Don’t get into nothin’.”

I looked over the railing to the bottom of the stairs. My mother stood at 4’11”, but had an index finger pressed against the center of his chest.

Bo placed his hands up and palms outward like he was surrendering to a superior combatant. She was the only person he ever seemed to fear.

Bo unlocked the car door and told me to “sit up front” on the houndstooth bucket seat. The dashboard had greasy streaks of Armor-All. A black tree air freshener hung from the rearview mirror.

“Don’t tell ya mother,” he said looking down on me with hardened eyes as his gigantic hands gripped the wheel.

“You know Steve Miller?” he asked as he popped in the “Greatest Hits” cassette tape.

“No.”

“Well you’re gonna learn today.”

His gaze softened and he cracked a faint smile as he shifted the car into gear. He sang along to “Fly Like an Eagle” as he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. His pager vibrated as he yelled, “again? you gotta be kiddin’!”

Bo pulled the car into a Mobil gas station to use a payphone and told me to “wait in the freakin’ car.” I cranked the window open slightly and tried to hear the conversation. He said something about some guy named Johnny Wu who “owed money.” But I had no idea what a “degenerate gambler” or a “Chinese cocksucker” were.

I got distracted by the sudden urge for Sour Patch Kids and remembered I still had a pocketful of quarters. A woman was exiting as I approached the store. A hooded man snuck up from behind and grabbed her purse. As he ran, we collided. It was an explosion of stars and quarters as my head smashed the pavement.

“Get up! And don’t cry like a bitch,” Uncle Bo said as he picked me up. He gestured towards the Prelude and yelled, “get back in the fuckin’ car.”

A minute or so passed before Bo returned rubbing his scraped knuckles. As we drove off, the purse snatcher lay bloodied and empty-handed in the middle of the parking lot.

“I don’t think anyone got a plate of the car that hit that guy,” Uncle Bo proclaimed. He asked if I had seen anything.

I swallowed and said, “no.”

“We have to make a quick stop in Chinatown,” said Bo.

“Why?” I asked.

He hesitated briefly and said, “well I gotta return this…” and then gestured to an old wooden baseball bat teetering on the hump over the rear floorboards.

Bo pulled up to the curb in front of a row of businesses with Chinese lettering on the signage.

He nodded toward a small print shop. From the car, I saw a few copy machines. Shelves were lined with greeting cards, office supplies, and stationery.

“Now listen to me, because this is important,” Bo explained. “If you see anyone come through that door after me, you lay on that horn for as long as you can. Understand?”

I nodded. Bo carried the bat and slung a slumping backpack as he strolled inside. He swung a few times at a copy machine before the counterman dropped several stacks of cash into the bag.

Bo returned and said, “about fuckin’ time.” He sped off and told me, “gambling ain’t for everyone.” Bo laughed and continued, “those Chinese make great cars though. They’ll run forever. I’d take my Honda any day over a Cadillac. You can have the Prelude when you’re sixteen, kid.”

The chrome diner was in the shadow of elevated subway tracks.

The small parking lot was beneath a sea of crisp American and Greek flags. Cars were trying to enter, leave, reverse, and park. Horns blared, but nobody moved.

Bo settled for a spot on the street.

“Isn’t this a bus stop? Won’t you get a ticket?” I asked. Bo shrugged.

We walked in and sat at the counter. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air over the faint smell of grease. Plates and silverware collided from the kitchen as the staff scrambled to keep up. Several old men next to us watched OTB horse racing on an overhead TV as they filled out betting slips.

“Bo? What the fuck are you doin’ here? You gotta lot of balls coming back after you fucked me in your Prelude in the Roll N Roaster parking lot. You could’ve at least called me back,” said a woman named Jen as evident from the shiny name tag on her black polyester shirt. She had dark circles beneath her gold wireframe glasses and a cigarette behind her ear.

The place went silent.

Bo pointed to me and said, “This is my nephew. Can you watch what you do and say around him?” Jen rolled her eyes before asking, “Lemme guess, pancakes with home fries and bacon? Coffee with cream and sugar?”

Bo nodded.

“What about the little man?” she asked.

“I’ll take the same, but no coffee. Just an orange juice,” I replied.

She cracked a smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

Bo left the money beside our empty plates as I waved goodbye to Jen.

“Don’t forget to call me, Bo,” she screamed across the restaurant.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bo mumbled under his breath.

The two other cars parked in the bus stop had bright orange tickets on the windshield. Bo’s car went unticketed. He winked at a traffic cop walking by, and they nodded back.

As he turned the key, the engine failed to start. We got out of the car and noticed that the hood was slightly ajar. Bo raised the hood and yelled, “some scumbag took my fuckin’ battery.”

A skinny man pedaled up on a rusty bike towing a rickety wagon filled with all kinds of stereo and car parts. “I’ll sell you a battery for 20 bucks,” he said. Bo took his head out of the engine bay and yelled, “Nicky Skells?”

The man replied, “I’m sorry, Bo. Didn’t know that was your car.” Bo lifted his car battery from the wagon and threw it at the chest of Nicky Skells.

He caught it.

“Now you’re going to pay me a $60 inconvenience fee and put the battery back in. And there better not be one fucking scratch on the car,” Bo replied.

Nicky Skells quickly reconnected the battery and handed Bo three crumpled twenty dollar bills.

We pulled into the driveway as my mother was exiting her car. He rushed me out and drove off before she could interrogate him.

“Did you learn anything at the zoo?” she asked.