Sam Pink - Witch Piss

Face said, “When the motherfucker rode down toward the street, o’boy like, ‘Make sure you look boaf ways!’”

He and Troy started laughing again.

Troy coughed like ‘kunk kunk.’

Face slid down the dumpster a little as he pounded the top of it.

“Boaf ways,” he said, kneeling behind the dumpster laughing. “Hahhhhh.”

I was smiling.

It was a nice night

The perfect night to die in your sleep.

I said, “Have either of you guys seen Spider-Man? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Face took a pull off the fifth and ate the gum back off his nail. “Yeah where Janny at? He supposed to be back already.”

Troy said, “Bissa no, I mean heece back around. He got kicked out of that, assissa, assisted living place with Janet, y’know? S’all bullshit, man. He uses her. But ey, whatever. Not my problem.”

Face said, “Yeah, he a bastard. Beatin on her and shit.”

“Ey, lissa,” Troy said. “He has her sit out front the fung post office all day. She makes six’y dollars in one day. She gives it all to him. His lazy ass goes out and drinks while she sits out front in her fung wheelchair.”

“Yeah he an assho,” Face said, nodding, clearing his throat. “I seenem slap her around too.”

“But ey, not my problem,” Troy said.

Face took a pull off the fifth. “Hey, you know what I noticed T? Shit’s always about you, man. No matter what we talkin bout. Everybody tryna have a nice conversation, and you tryna talk about yo shit. It ain T world, man. Can’t be that way.”

Troy said, “What? Nah man.”

“It ain only about you, T,” Face said. “Can’t care only about yoself.” He pounded on the dumpster lid. “Ain T world, man.”

“Nah, I’on’t care about myself,” Troy said, shaking his head a little and straightening his blankets. “I’on’t care if I die tomorrow. Come on, I’ma bum. I’m fung bum, I don’t care about myself. I’m nobody, y’know?”

“Aight man,” Face said, staring off to the side. “I heard you, jo. Coo.”

Troy said, “No, bissa, becussa I—”

“I said I heard you, motherfucker. Damn, shut the fuck up, Troy.”

Face was tapping the dumpster lid with his fingernails. Making a fist with the other hand. Nobody said anything for a little bit.

We finished the fifth.

Face and Troy split a grape-flavored cigar.

I threw some rocks at a ‘Slow’ sign on a lightpole for a little bit then said goodbye.

Face shook my hand and patted my shoulder. “I’ma go too, cous. Tired of this assho.”

But Troy was asleep again.

Where the alley broke off in different directions, Face and I went different directions.

He smashed the empty fifth against a garage.

The pit bull down the alley barked, ‘Oorv oorv.’

When I passed by Spider-Man’s this afternoon the alley was cleared of his bed, shit from the dumpsters everywhere, rental cars parked against the brick wall.

So I went to Troy’s.

Troy and Craig were leaning on a dumpster sharing a 40.

Troy pointed at me, opening and closing his mouth silently as if forgetting what to say.

He came out from behind the dumpster, excited to see me for some reason.

“And what is goin on, my man,” he said.

We bumped forearms.

“Fuck yeah, Troy,” I said.

“Run it,” he said, pointing at me with both hands.

“I’m going to get some 40s. You guys want anything?”

“Yeah, if you could,” Troy said, clasping his hands together.

I went across the street and got three 40s.

“Oh, shit, anks man,” Troy said, when I handed him one.

Craig said, “Yeah, we could’ve shared one, me and Troy. But thank you.”

We stood around drinking.

Talking about the Blackhawks.

Talking about bullshit.

Every once in a while Troy would look at me and say, “How you feelin?”—pointing at me and silently moving his mouth, paste all around his lips.

And I’d say, “I’m good, Troy.”

And then he’d point at Craig and say, “And how you feelin?”

And Craig would say, “Wimma hands, man.”

Down the alley, a garage door opened.

This lady came out.

She was holding a smashed-looking 12-pack.

She and Troy seemed to know each other.

They said hi.

“Here, you guys can have this beer,” she said. “I don’t want it.”

She set the case on top of a dumpster.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No problem,” she said. She put some hair behind her ear and folded her arms. “It’s been in my fridge for like, a year now.”

Troy said, “Well aright! Run it!”

The woman laughed and said, “Ok guys” and waved and went back into her garage, closing the door.

We finished our 40s then started on the case she’d brought us.

Behind the dumpsters at Troy’s place.

The sun.

The smell of Troy’s grape-flavored cigar.

Chicago, the land of fine sun and even finer grape-flavored cigars.

Welcome.

Craig walked off to the side of a garage to piss.

From behind the garage, he laughed and said, “Man, Troy, I’s just thinking, remember when they had the drunk tank at the Cali Ave. Po-lice Department?”

“Ha, yeah,” Troy said. “I’s in that bitch a hunnerd fucking times, man. Run it!”

Craig said, “Yeah so one time I’s in there with Face and Danny. We got picked up by the park, all wasted and shit. They put us in nearby cells.” He came back over, zipping his pants. “They hooked it up with them bologna sandwiches, man. Tellin you. Face ate like six them bitches and fell right asleep. Fucking Danny, he used the bread to wipe his ass.”

We all laughed.

Craig said, “The cops cleared us and shit, but then they’s like, something about staying a while longer because it was raining out. We all like, ‘Hell no.’ Didn’t even wait for our shoelaces, man. Was only drizzling out too.”

Troy said, “Aw man, at reminds me. Danny was around the other day, man. I’n’t tell you.”

“Aw shit,” Craig said, smiling. “How is he?”

“Doin good, doin good,” Troy said. “Heece walkin now. Came around and said what’s up, gave us ten dollars for some beers. Run it. Still stayin with his pops and stepmom. Got a big belly now, big beard. Lookin good, man.”

“Hell yeah,” I said.

“Hell yeah,” Troy said. “Run it.”

We were quiet for a while.

The sun returned.

The heat and humidity increased.

Craig sniffed a few times and made a face, put his shirt over his nose. “Man. Smell like dookie and piss back here, Troy. The fuck.”

Troy said, “What? Nah.”

“Yeah, Troy. This shit bad. You fucked up.”

“Nah, I clean up back here every week.”

“Nah Troy, nah,” Craig said. “Smell like dookie and piss.” He turned to me, making eye contact with his shirt still over his nose. “Dookie and piss?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Aw, f’real?” Troy said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Right when he said it, I smelled it.”

Troy got up and walked around. “It does,” he said. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m lazy. I’ll clean up soon. Sorry guys. Only started making my bed once I became homeless, hah. Been in a house, been married, never made my bed. Now, I make my bed.”

Nobody said anything for a little bit.

Troy apologized numerous times.

Said he was going to get the hose and bucket from the little co-op he worked at so he could clean his place.

He promised.

“I do the windows over here for these guys once a week and I’ll just take the hose out here and spray it all down real good. Geez. I’m sorry guys. I’m lazy. Haven’t even made a bed until I was homeless, hah.”