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“What are those? Sun monsters?” I guess, tipping my head to the side to see if they made more sense from this angle.
“No. They’re the spots you get in your eyes when you look at the sun!” he shrieks. Well, all right then. Wait. No.
“You shouldn’t look directly at the sun. It’s bad for your eyes,” I remind him gently. He pouts, adding another two squiggles with a vengeance.
“My mommy says that too.”
“It sounds like your mommy is a smart lady.”
“She is.”
He happily washes his hands, carefully holding his painting as his fifteen-minute window ends.
“Mommy! Look what I drew!”
“Lovely, and you’ve given the sun freckles!”
He opens his mouth to correct her, but his eyes dart over to me, and he winks clumsily.
“That’s right, Mommy! Freckles.”
I can’t help but laugh. If his mommy is smart, he’s a freaking genius.
MERCH
San Remo Community Day. Worst day of my fucking year. I have this day on my calendar on my phone, and I count down to it every year. You mark time if you know you have to walk through the gates of hell.
It was Wren Esk’s idea originally. There was supposed to be some bullshit raid on the clubhouse organized by a dirty Police Chief and a downright filthy State Senator. The community day got us all out of the clubhouse for the day without suspicion, and it got the public on our side.
After their chief disappeared – hashtag no regrets – and all his dirty laundry got aired – thanks, Nan and Wren – the new Police Chief approached us to partner up for future events.
Which is how I’m now standing in a goddamn field in the first week of Fall, the scent of turpentine broom lingering in the air, surrounded by screaming children and cotton candy. I don’t so much mind the cotton candy. That shit is delicious.
We provide security for the event. So do the police, but they stay out of our way regarding matters involving South Side residents.
Somehow, even though we’re not exactly hiding our1%erpatches,we’ve managed to carve out a significant amount of community goodwill. Hell, half the women walking around are eyeing us off instead of clutching their children and hurrying them away. What a difference four years make.
The section of the fair Palmer and I are supposed to be controlling has a large number of kids stalls in it. Palmer has already had three servings of cotton candy. I’m surprised the man’s tongue hasn’t turned bright pink.
A high-pitched wail has me turning, my eyes darting around. I locate the source quickly, a kid standing alone with a red balloon tied to his wrist. I’m at his side in three strides, kneeling down.
“Hey there, buddy. Where’s your mommy?”
Huge blue eyes filled with tears turn on me.
“I d-don’t know!” he wails. Fuck.
“What is she wearing?”
“A pink dress and a hat with f-flowers.”
Okay. So she’s an adult human female at this event. That description was less than no help. I could throw out my arms, and my hands would land on at least three women who fit that description.
“How about we go find the police stall? They have a way to find lost mommies.”
“Okay.”
The little boy takes my outstretched hand, following me to the police stall.
