Chapter 11
Our apartment building was next to a bar. Walt’s Bar and Restaurant was a dingy old bar with a sign that
hung crooked over the front door. During the week, old drunks would stumble out of the bar all day long and
into the night. But, they were quiet. On the weekends, bands would come and play, and things got wild. Walt
had sound proofed his building pretty good, but we could usually hear some of the music as it drifted upstairs
into our bedrooms. AC/DC and Leonard Skynard were our lullabies. But, the problem wasn’t the music. It
was the loud fights after hours. At least once a weekend, someone would get into a loud bloody fight in the
gravel parking lot, and the police would show up and break it up. Maybe arrest a few people. When we were
younger, my mom would cover our windows with an old blanket, so we didn’t have to see it. But, now that we
were older, my mom protected us less from those scenes. She still covered the window in Cyrus and John’s
room to protect Cyrus. But, Cyrus knew all about it. He would pull the blanket back and stare down on the
bar. He even kept a notebook about who got into fights when. He even drew pictures in it.
Every Sunday morning, since he was eight, Cyrus would go into the parking lot of Walt’s and pick up the loose
change and lost dollar bills of the drunks. Sometimes, it was only a dollar or two. Once, it was fifty dollars. It
became a tradition to see Cyrus there on Sunday morning, and Cyrus had a way with people that was almost
magical. “He has a light,” Grandma Betty would say. It was true; maybe it was his weirdness that people
were drawn to. But, whatever it was. Cyrus had an effect on people because I’d watch the old drunks
shaking out their change on the ground for him before they left Walt’s. Sometimes, you could hear the sound
of change hitting the gravel parking lot as people drove by and tossed change out for Cyrus. No one would
dare approach him and hand him money. No, that wasn’t the rules. The code of conduct was the silent
change left for him, so he could treasure hunt on Sunday morning.
Everyone knew Cyrus. Almost everyday, as he got off the school bus, one of the old drunks passed by our
house. Cyrus would stop and talk to them. My mom was always yelling at him about the old drunks, but it did
no good. Cyrus wanted to hear their stories, and the drunks repaid his kindness with a handful of change
dropped into the dirt. A little offering after confession.
I watched Cyrus in the parking lot, collecting his change in an old Miracle Whip jar. He was singing. I couldn’t
hear him, but I could see his mouth moving, and his chubby body keeping rhythm with the song. It was close to
Halloween, and he had painted his face with Halloween make up. His face was bright green, and he was
wearing green plastic alien ears. His shirt was pink, and he looked like a strange colorful bird pecking at the
dirt.
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