Polska Town

Drifting down Milwaukee Dad and I looked for someone to give our Dunkin Donuts coffee to. Pausing by a club with no windows and an 80’s dancer on the sign we watched a group of Latino men, loitering around Shell, run up to an F-350 showing off their calloused hands.

We continued walking down to Belmont. Black dragons and cobras stained the windows of a Mexican tattoo parlor. Circling around the block we peered into a Polish medical office. After walking half-way down the block Dad stopped and said, "Let's go back."

I rubbernecked at a yellow restaurant squeezed between the 30 degree intersection of Milwaukee and Belmont. As it goes in Polish Town, a man killed his wife and hid her body behind the drywall about 50 years ago.

Going back up Milwaukee I passed behind a Hasidic Jew sitting at the bus stop. Dad stopped to look at an empty lot with a rusty semi trailer. A brick wall, sealed with red and white paint, loomed over the lot. I stopped right behind the Jewish man and turned around. He crept his eyes over his shoulder. I joined my dad and asked, "Is this where we saw her?"

"Right over there."

I led the way across the street as we continued up Milwaukee. We stopped and peeked down each cross street and alley. An old shaggy man with short brown khakis limped out of Ali's Deli with a long box of raspberries. His puffy blue jacket had rips that leaked down feathers.

Stopping him on the crosswalk dad asked, "You remember us?"

He grunted a long, "Ahh." Wobbling his wooden hand into the box he crushed a couple raspberries between his index finger and thumb and licked them off. Dirt was rooted under his thick plastic nails. Stabbing his fingers through moldy raspberries he muttered a curse in Polish. His hand squeezed the box and he slammed it on the cement, screaming profanities. Raspberry juice splattered my jeans and the white painted crosswalk.

I stuck out my hand. He looked down at his hand covered with red syrup and kept it to himself. "Coffee?" I asked.