Them by Nathan McCall

that carried insurance benefits. But Ricky had never held a go-to-work-every-day job, so he was deemed a lower class of drunk.
    Ricky parallel parked his cart like an automobile and sidled up to Barlowe. Call it insight or just plain intuition, but something told Ricky there was money in that man’s wallet, and maybe even some cash for him .
    â€œS’cuse me!” He spoke loud, like he was yelling at somebody up the street. “I rake your yard for few dollas!”
    â€œNaw,” said Barlowe. “I’m gonna do it myself.”
    â€œI do a good job! You’ll love my wurk!”
    When Ricky spoke, two rusty teeth peeked out from between ashy lips. Barlowe studied him closely and reconsidered.
    Ricky wore dirty blue jeans, a grease-stained shirt (with an ink pen hung proudly in the breast pocket) and a thin, oversized nylon jacket. A black-and-white do-rag covered his shaggy head. The do-rag was ringed by an elastic band, with words printed in italics: Jesus Saves .
    He also sported mod sunshades, one of the many gems he’d come across rifling through garbage cans.
    Ricky and Barlowe were about the same age, but Ricky appeared a full ten years older. His face, a medium brown, was sallow, with pock-marked skin. Patches of coarse hair were scattered across his mug like sagebrush blown over a dusty plain. He looked like he’d been shoved through a meat grinder, twice, and left for dead.
    Barlowe finished the sly inspection and thought to himself: There’s a thin line between me and him .
    He steered Ricky up the walk. “Now, Ricky. If I let you do the work, how much you gonna charge me?”
    Ricky peered toward the sky, as if consulting some heavenly pricing chart. Then he glanced down at Barlowe’s work shoes. The shoes looked pretty sporty; had a nice shine, too.
    â€œGimme thurty-five!”
    He glanced at Barlowe over the top of his sunshades and quickly looked away.
    â€œRicky. I know you can do better.”
    â€œI do a good job!” He smiled, flashing his dirty teeth.
    â€œYeah,” said Barlowe. “I got somethin that might help us out. Wait right here.”
    He hurried around to the back of the house and returned carrying a leaf blower and a red gas can. He handed them to Ricky.
    â€œYou can use this blower on the light stuff in front. You won’t have to do much rakin at all… Now how much you gonna charge?”
    Ricky concentrated hard, making mental computations for a price adjustment—allowing for use of the man’s leaf blower, of course.
    â€œHow bout les do thurty!”
    â€œRicky. Is my blower.”
    â€œI’ma do a good job! You gon love my wurk!”
    Barlowe weighed the counteroffer. For him, such negotiations amounted to a kind of charitable game. The goal was to donate and inspire, without giving handouts. The intent was to be tough but fair, to avoid being taken advantage of and, at the same time, taking care not to wound the recipient’s pride.
    The recipient—in this case, Ricky Brown—had his own simple goal: to maximize profit. That required a certain rough-hewn shrewdness, the ability to spot the angle on a negotiating edge. Ricky was very experienced at this, ever watchful for signs of fear, a bleeding heart or, best of all, profound guilt. On a good day, any one of those factors could bring a full ten dollars more than the asking price.
    But Ricky could see right off that Barlowe had been a few times around the block. This dude was not one to be intimidated or fooled.
    â€œTell you what, Ricky. Les do twenny and call it a day.”
    â€œOkay, twenny! I’ma do a good job! You gon love my wurk!”
    Ricky unscrewed the leaf blower cap, then opened the gas can lid and looked at Barlowe with surprise.
    â€œAin’t no gas in dese! You need gas!”
    â€œI know. I’ll go get some.”
    â€œThas all right! I git it! I git it! Gimme fi dollas and I run up the street and git it