he's so damn endearing. . .

cherry pickin', part DEUX

I knew the type of person Steve McGuire was before I wrote one word of CHERRY. I knew him up, down and sideways, inside and out. How did he get to be so sweet? Considering his history, what he’s endured, how he makes his living, and yet he’s a kind person. In a lot of ways, he remains an innocent. He’s not perfect but he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He’s a sponge trying to soak up everything, learn everything. Maybe because he knows his time is running out. He has an unshakeable belief system, an unwavering faith, a remarkable capacity to forgive. I love him. Can't help it.

“You’re not making sense. You’re mixing everything up.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. B.  I promised her. I told her, ‘I’m sorry I killed you but I still want to be your son’ and she said, ‘Then you can’t be older than me, Steve’ and I said, I said. . .”
Oh, shit. Here we go. I stood up.
“I said, ‘I won’t, I won’t Mom’ because she told me . . . she said. . .”

“Yeah, I’m in working mode right now.”

“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my name’s Cherry right now,” he said. “And I need to make some money.”

“Hey, Mr. Bee, this is a good one. It starts out with this guy who does high dives. Man, that Elmo.”

I smiled. “You’d better not call him that, Steve. I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

“Yeah, if he ever heard me call him Elmo I bet he’d say, ‘Not cool, Steve. Now I gotta break your legs.’”

“I can’t live longer than she did.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, I do. I want to be with my mom.”

“Hey,” I said, out of the blue, “You’re charging me too much. You shouldn’t be charging me a damn thing, Steve.” 
“Cherry, remember? I—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said. I took another pull and closed it up again. “I mean, dear boy. . .”

Steve must have thought that was funny. He cracked a grin.

“I don’t know what I mean, Steve,” I said, smiling back. “I mean, Cherry. Cherry, my dear boy.”

“You’re acting so weird, Mr. Bee.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say. It’s human nature to want to love and be loved, but people are imperfect, so—”

“So, they mess up,” he finished.

“That’s right.”

“But they have to keep trying,” he added.

I whispered, “Remember that on December 15, Steve,” and the kid whispered back, “I will, if you remember it on my birthday.”

"don't be an idiot, okay?"

cherry pickin', part one

In CHERRY, Steve McGuire, aka 'Cherry', is an enigma: intuitive but clueless, worldly but innocent, a perpetual man-child . . .   

“When I’m in working mode, my name’s Cherry. That’s my professional momiker.”

“You know what? We should go for a ride.”
“What—now?”
“Yep. We should go for a ride right now. We could go to the mall behind J. C. Penney’s.”
My heart skipped a beat. I felt it, swear to God.
“Twenty bucks. No, ten, ‘cause I almost gave you a heart attack.” He said that, then he stuck his tongue out at me. 

“Okay, part one: what was the book and part two: who’s Elmo Leonard?”

The kid slowly shook his head.
“What?”
“That’s not good, I bet.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m not exactly sure what it means, though.” 

“Okay. Remember the day it was snowing? You were standing in the road at Oak and Vine, right in the intersection, remember?”
“Nooo. . .”
“It was snowing and I fell out of the van, remember?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah, now I do. That was funny.”
“No, it wasn’t. I thought you were going to get hit by that car.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smile fading.

“How did you know I was nice?”
“You let me get warm in your van.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“You were twelve, huh?”
“Yeah, and ever since then, I follow that code. I read it every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed.”
“That’s really something.”
“I know.” 

“I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“Wait a minute—”
“And they’re mad at me.”
“Wait a minute, Steve. Who’s mad at you?”
“The cops.”
“Why are they mad at you?”
“I don’t know.” 

He bent down and whispered in my ear, “Open it or I’ll smother you. Do you want to be smothered right now?” 

“Did you know I got a busted rib?”
“Two busted ribs, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. And I got two black eyes.”
“I know.”
“And I got a broke nose.”
“I can see it, Steve.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed. 

“You can’t adopt me, Mr. Bee.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s crazy. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am, but you never told me what you want, so what do you want?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Seriously, Steve, what do you want? Tell me.”
His smile faded.  

“He knows who I’m with, Mr. Bee,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot, okay?”