Spark by Allison Glasgow

When you come to our place it looks like Las Vegas, all lights and screens going, electronics full-fire, ablaze. I convince my brother Frank to turn down the volume, this isn’t Best Buy, you know. No need to have that sound clanging around. The visual commotion already gives it the feel of an arcade, so that’s what I call it—the arcade. This is Frank’s gig, stealing and selling TVs and IPads, laptops and gaming systems. Everyone in the neighborhood is outfitted by Frank because he sells damn cheap. His prices are so low, some buy to resale, which is kinda unfair, as Frank does the thievery on top of the hawking, but really it’s ok. “Gotta move it, move it,” he sings to the new merchandise. He wants it in and out.

Whatever cash in hand is food on the table, Frank takes this job serious. He remembers living at Gram’s where no one gave a damn about food. Oh, people would be eating, but they wouldn’t think to go shopping, or to pick up something for the runts. He’d have to rifle through abandoned McDonald’s bags, or pluck dollars from pants pockets crumpled on the floor. I don’t remember this, but I was small. Frank says he took care I got fed, and that’s the truth.