Free I Sailed with Magellan by Stuart Dybek

pillowcase with dirty clothes, and since he’s
cleaning, starts on the heaps of dishes unwashed for weeks. Then, wham, it hits him like a revelation: who needs all this shit? Into trash bags go not only pizza cardboards and Chinese food cartons but bottles, cans, cereal boxes, plates, bowls, glasses, dirty pots. The silverware can stay. Next, it’s the refrigerator’s turn: sour milk, moldy cheese, rancid butter, all the scummy, half-empty bottles of mustard, mayo, pickles, jam, until the fridge is completely empty except for its cruddy shelves.
    He removes the shelves.
    Now he’s got room for the giant mortadella that Sal brought from Italy. Sal came back from his trip bearing gifts and saying, “Allora!” whatever that means. The mortadella is scarred with wounds from another souvenir Sallie brought him, a stiletto. He’s wanted an authentic stiletto for his knife collection, and this one is a piece of work, a slender pearl handle contoured to slide the thumb directly to the switch, and the most powerful spring he’s ever seen on a knife. When the six-inch blade darted out, the knife actually recoiled in his hand. It felt as if the blade could shoot through Sheetrock, let alone flesh. He tested it on the mortadella, a thick sausage more muscular than Charles F-ing Atlas. He wondered if the knife could penetrate the rind, and was amazed when the thrust of the spring buried the blade to the hilt. It was a test he found himself repeating, and the mortadella, now propped in the empty refrigerator, looks as if it’s seen gladiatorial combat, like Julius F-ing Caesar after Brutus got done with him.
    Whitey calls. “Joey, you take care of business?”
    â€œStill in the planning stage.”
    â€œWell, the decision’s been made, you know? Let’s not be indecisive on this.”
    â€œNo problem, Whitey.”
    Taking care of business. Last Saturday night at Fabio’s what Whitey said was “Blow the little skimming fuck’s balls off and leave him for the birds.”

    â€œNot like there’s vultures circling the neighborhood,” he told Whitey, and Whitey said, “Joey, it was a manner of fucken speaking.”
    Okay, allora! motherfucker, no more procrastination. He can haul out the garbage, drop his laundry at the Chink’s, and take care of Johnny Sovereign. Let’s get this fucking thing over with even though he hasn’t made a plan yet and that’s not like him. Things are chancy enough without leaving them to chance. The man who’s prepared, who knows exactly what he’s going to do, always has the advantage. What seems inevitable as fate to such a man, to others seems like a surprise. Problems invariably arise, and he wants to be able to anticipate them, like the Indian who can listen to an engine and hear what will go bad. He wants to see the scars that appear before the wounds that caused them.
    With a cotton swab he oils the .22, then sets the Hoppe oil on a glass ashtray on his dresser beside the Old Spice so it doesn’t leave a ring, and tests the firing mechanism. He fills the clip with hollow-point shells and slides it into the Astra Cub, a Spanish-made Saturday night special that fits into the pocket of his sport coat. The sport coat is a two-button, powder-blue splash—same shade as the Bluebird. He’d conceal the stiletto in his sock, but he’s stuffed all his socks into the dirty laundry, which forces him to dig inside the pillowcases until he comes up with a black-and-pink argyle with a good elastic grip to it. He can’t find the match, so he puts the argyle on his right foot and a green Gold Toe on the left—nobody’s going to be checking his fucking socks—then slides the stiletto along his ankle.
    From his bedroom closet he drags out the locked accordion case that belonged to his grandfather. There’s a lacquered red accordion inside that came from Lucca, where Puccini lived. In a