Page 106 of Tito

Reggie

Spending my Sunday afternoons with Hap and Braxton was a pleasure. Having them be a part of my life was reassurance that my relationship with Tito was built on a rock-solid foundation that included his family.

Hap reminded me of my grandfather. Tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build, he had an attitude a mile long. One problem was that no one—me included—could figure out whether to take him seriously or not. With a heart fashioned of solid gold, he’d do anything for you as long as he’d accepted you as a friend or family.

Although Braxton was strikingly handsome and always well-dressed, there was something about him that left me wondering what was hidden beneath the outer shell of Tom Ford suits and Rolex watches he wore.

His attitude wasn’t masked by smiles or superficial remarks. He wore his bitter brashness like a crown of jewels. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if beneath the gray beard and tough-guy bravado if there was another heart of gold, just like his father’s.

I gave Tito my empty beer bottle. “Here you go.”

Tito handed it to Braxton, who exchanged it for a full bottle. Tito passed the bottle to me. “Here you go.”

Although there were no official assignments, each of us had our Sunday afternoon porch duty. Hap picked the topics of discussion. Braxton was in charge of the cooler—and of antagonizing Hap. Tito was caught between them, giving his opinions and often settling lop-sided arguments between the father and son duo.

I acted as a referee, letting the men know when matters got out of hand.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Tito said with a smile.

“This heat wave’s killing me.” Hap tossed his empty bottle his in the air. “Heads up, dip-shit.”

The bottle flew past me. Braxton caught it with little effort, plucking it from the air in mid-flight. The show of talent was a tradition for Hap and a testament to Braxton’s hand-eye coordination.

Every Sunday, Hap would throw his empty bottles of beer, typically unannounced, toward Braxton. Each time, Braxton would catch them.

“Last one.” Braxton said, handing Tito the bottle. He leaned forward and peered toward Hap. “Go grab the reinforcements, Old Man.”

Hap stood. “Last one?” He gave Braxton a puzzled look. “I just filled that son-of-a-bitch last night.”

Braxton chuckled. “Looks like someone’s stealing your beer.”

“Stealing it? If someone was stealing it, why wouldn’t they take it all? Why not take the cooler?”

“They’re not taking it all because their little arms won’t hold any more.”

Hap glared toward the other side of the street. “Those little fuckers. I’ll wring their little goddamned necks.”

“Nothing worse than a thief,” Braxton said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Hap said.

Braxton laughed. “Just be careful how big of drinks you take, or we’ll have to cut this day short.”

“I’ll get those little pricks,” Hap said under his breath.

“Do you know who they are?” I asked.

“I’ve got a good damned idea.” Hap responded. He took a drink and wiped his mouth on his forearm before gesturing toward the house with a nod. “Those two that are always fighting across the street. That woman and her children’s father, or whoever that punk is. Their kids are a couple of fifteen-year-old delinquents.”

Hap set his beer aside and hurdled the porch railing. Halfway across the yard, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Braxton shot up from his seat. “God damn it, Old Man.”

“Stay where you are,” Hap insisted. “I can take care of this myself.”

“Stubborn bastard,” Braxton said under his breath.