Out of all the men who’ve claimed to be my father, I think I like Mitch the second best. He bought me Peanuts-branded water wings and taught me chinese / japanese / dirty knees / look at these. He enjoyed music on white cassettes. He would make me bacon sandwiches on Monday nights, just bacon and wheat bread. He once smashed a heavy decanter against one man’s face and poked the jagged remains into another’s. He let me wear his Medicare bracelet. He gave me a new pack of cigarettes to smack against the kitchen counter.

I still have the greeting card he left behind on my toybox. Your a good kid, it said, the print small and slanting. You keep that bitch in line, love Mitch. The LTD rolling out before dawn, mom brewing some coffee and working the crossword puzzle, me wrapping my security blanket around my head like a babushka, as I did on cold mornings back then.