I’m twelve years old, riding my bike down Warwick Road to Mrs. Tamashek’s house to buy a chicken. I see a hunched-over person kneeling along the side of the road and stop to see if I can help. I’m disgusted to find a boy about my age skinning a dead raccoon that is apparently roadkill. I’m transfixed and feel nauseous at the same time. I ask him why he’s doing that and he looks at me with a sneer. I ask if he lives around here and he points his knife toward a small house not far from Mrs. Tamashek’s. I watch as he finishes skinning the raccoon, stands, and starts walking down the road with the wet raccoon pelt slung over his shoulder. I walk my bike alongside, tell him my name, and ask his. He says his name is Jerry.

That’s how Jerry and I meet and become friends. He’s from Romania, tall and thin for his age, with a very dark complexion. I learn that during WWII, he and his mother avoid starvation by killing and eating rabbits, squirrels, foxes, and even feral cats and dogs. His father is killed in the war and he and his mother come to America after the war. She works at a hospital in Camden as a nurse’s aide. The only memories they took from Romania are a collection of hand-painted Easter eggs, an Eastern European tradition, now displayed in a dining room cabinet. My grandmother says they’re gypsies and doesn’t like them.

Jerry shows me his collection of roadkill pelts and the gloves, jackets, and trinkets he makes from the skins and the teeth he collects and makes into bracelets and necklaces. Gruesome for sure but I’m impressed. He’s pretty cool. He’s the same age as me but seems so much more mature and worldly. I’m gonna learn from this guy.