“My mother had no clothes when they came banging on our door,” 12-year-old Nakethan Johnson is saying as he and his friends stride into the McDonald’s at Wells and Adams.
Soon he plops down with his bag of hot meat, white bread, and sugar water. His friends are Tonio, Richard, Carl, Keith, and Randy, Nakethan’s 16-year-old brother. Every afternoon, between four and a little after six, they earn their money on Loop corners selling papers, then stop at this McDonald’s to spend half of it on a quick meal they all agree barely lasts them till they get home to Cabrini.
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Only Nakethan counts his pennies. “You got to have a plan, you got to have something to keep you busy if you’re going to make it. You see, I know I’m going to be a lawyer when I grow up–right now I’m an actor,” he explains matter-of-factly. The group finish their meal, Nakethan snatches up his eight unsold final editions, and they head back out into the thinning light of the Loop’s financial district.
When the group arrives at Mr. Submarine on Wells just south of Washington, Nakethan has rejoined it. “The girl we all have a crush on” is here, Nakethan whispers as he motions toward a young Hispanic woman behind the counter. Her name is Marguerite. Randy and Richard push to the counter and argue over the dollar bill they have between them. In their mock tussle they lose hold of the bill, which floats to the floor behind the counter, near the cash register.
Nakethan explains about his current acting career and plans for becoming a lawyer. To do so, he says he has to stay in touch with several attorneys who have befriended him. He must also finish elementary school at Jenner, and after that attend high school, college, and of course law school. His patrons have promised to make him a legal clerk if he makes it that far. This is his big-picture plan.
The kids say their good-byes amid the neon-lit broken glass and rubble of the parking lot. Nakethan and Randy, careful to avoid the “war zone” alley a half block to the north, go to the elevator of their building, the 800 building, but it doesn’t work. A dash up the pitch-dark cement stairway is the only way to get to the eighth floor. Halfway up we encounter six small children playing in the checkered light of the barred balcony. Randy stays to talk, but Nakethan keeps going and soon arrives home, to an apartment swarming with roaches. “Another day, another dollar,” he says.
