Hell, if I know!
I woke up to some red-dented Camaro blasting “Drunk on a Plane.” Had a Fritos Corn Chips wrapper stuck to my left cheek and an empty no-drop-left-in-the-bottle of Jack Daniels hugging my crutch—bad night.
I know nothing.
Just another fuck up, livin’ the struggle.
So, leave me out of it.
What? No, I don’t wanna go nowhere with you. I’m good. Didn’t do nothing. Okay? What? Things were okay, then they weren’t. Just like that, on a toss of a die — ain’t nobody needs a barely graduated high school employee no more. Not when you don’t have to pay minimum wage.
No apologies, nothing, just a ten-second council voted eight to one to end my fifteen-year career as a parking attendant at Wesley County Courthouse. Everything automated, so don’t need me or anyone else to do anything.
All life goin’ robo-man.
No, no warning, no severance pay, nothing. Everything stripped out from underneath me, two weeks shy of the holidays when every seasonal job already taken by some eager high schooler trying to bank enough bucks to buy some new Xbox video game to drown out all the adult drama on Christmas.
I got nine hundred, fifty-three, and thirty-two cents to my name. Period. I don't know. What you got? Retirement fund? Pension? Health insurance? What’s that!! Oh, for sure some big-ass 401K waiting to cash in on some magical day. I’m just like the other folks ‘round here in this down-and-out, piece of shit city. I’m living paycheck to paycheck.
PAYCHECK TO PAYCHECK, UNCLE SCAM!
Just like that loser lying dead flat there. Bet his mama never thought he’d end up puddled in his blood with a knife twisted down his back. Better off, you ask me. Can’t feel nothing when you dead.
Just saying.
These sorry States of America got enough money to send 5,000 unguided Mk82 bombs, 5,400 plus Mk84 bombs, 1,000 plus GBU-39 small-diameter bombs, and 3,000 plus JDAMs over to blow some mothers and children to smithereens. Sure, you wanna help? Yeah, right! Wait till it’s your job, RoboCop. Imagine you left it in the cold because of some automated-don’t-have-to-look-in-your-face-to-kill-you?
I escaped that military trap ’cause when I took my shirt off during the medical, Dr. Know-it-All saw the sideways curvature of my spine. Something about a lumbar spine over 20 degrees on the Cobb salad scale. It never bothered me, I told him. I can do anything any soldier can do.
Didn’t matter. I was a cripple as far as he was concerned and I didn’t even go to war. Just looks like it. Some sorry-ass Vet slumped over in front of Tom Thumb with a misspelled sign and a coffee cup begging for change from some rich white lady willing to pay seven bucks for some fancy strawberry preserves.
I’m not bitter. I’m a poor toss-away living on the edge of being and not-a-thing. Hard to be when I got nothin’ and nothin’ got me.
What you say? Family?!? WTF?
Do you think that lowlife sack of shit had a family who cared? You think he’d be dead, but for living on these streets. Are you gonna look up his family?!? Sure. Right? Like the fuck you’d take the time. As if you care! Bundle him up in one of your body bags and put a tag on him. Hahaha!
AS IF!
Whoever the fuck he is, it’s one less stench to smell when passing by on your rounds. Isn’t that right, officer?
I had a job!
I’m not going nowhere with you!
I ain’t homeless. I know my rights. Get your hands off me!
Fuck! Stop it!
I didn’t do nothin’ but wake up on the wrong side of the gutter. All I did was go to work and lose my job. Now you telling me I’m somehow a suspect. Why? ’Cause ain’t nobody else around, just me? Gotta close the case so people feel safe. Hahahaha!
Ain’t nobody safe! Not you. Not me. Nobody!
It’s the Wild, Wild West man! Hahaha!
Wild West and you, fool, the sheriff.
Today, yet another homeless man was stabbed in my city a few feet away from the metro station. Several cop cars showed up. Yellow tape went up to rope off the area. Gawkers came out to stare, then got disgusted and left. The body was tossed in a bag and taken away. Nobody will claim it. Third stabbing this week. Homeless on homeless crime. Nobody cares. Homeless on resident crime. News, but Nobody cares.
Nothing changes.
Lots of disposable John Does in these parts.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
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