Sam Pink - Witch Piss

Craig said, “That’s on you, T.”

This guy came around the corner, pushing a shopping cart full of cans and metallic garbage.

“Yo, Scrappy!” Craig said.

Scrappy parked his shopping cart and went behind the dumpsters.

Troy got up and arranged a different dumpster — one on wheels — to shield him some more.

“Hi, I’m Martin,” he said to me, only part of his face visible behind the dumpster.

He was wearing a Bears hat pushed back on his head.

He had a very quiet and muted voice and he didn’t blink at all.

“Am I gonna be cool?” he said to Troy, taking out a crackpipe.

Troy said, “Yeah yeah, don’t worry. Save me a hit too.”

Martin plunged his crackpipe with a small screwdriver and talked about making a lot of money off aluminum cans from this recent street festival in K-Town.

He packed the crackpipe and smoked, rotating the pipe and watching with his eyes crossed.

He exhaled and put his hand over his face.

I said I was going to get more beer, asked what people wanted.

Craig said, “I’ll split a King Cobra with Troy.”

Troy said, “Yeah man, anks.”

I asked Martin if he wanted anything.

“No, I don’t drink,” he said. “But maybe like, a 7-Up or something, sure.”

I went and bought two King Cobras, a cinnamon bun, and a can of 7-Up.

I ate the cinnamon bun in three bites before I even crossed the street.

Back at Troy’s, Martin was still sitting behind the dumpster, mumbling quietly and staring.

Troy had taken off his hoody, wearing a tanktop with an American flag in the middle, the words “The United States of America” above the flag, then beneath it, “Winner of back to back World Wars.”

He sat on the edge of his bed holding the crackpipe.

He loaded a rock and took a hit, tilting his head back and raising the pipe.

Craig said, “Damn man, don’t advertise.”

Troy exhaled.

He looked at Craig. “So how you feelin man?”

Craig smiled and winked. “Wimma hands, man.”

“Feel this with your hands,” Troy said, motioning like he was going to unzip his pants.

“Fuckatta here, Troy,” Craig said, laughing. “Kill you.”

“No, whatta y’think,” Troy said. “Issa, we can go to Boystown and make a quick 40 bucks. Handjobs. Anyone wanna go with?”

“You nasty,” Craig said, shaking his head.

Troy said, “No, but ey, sometimes they just wissa, wanna watch you jack off. Easy money, man. Come on. Anybody?”

Craig said, “You fucked up, Troy. Fuckin dumbass.”

Martin stood up from behind Troy’s bed and got his shopping cart and left without saying anything, adjusting his hat as he walked away.

“Later Scrappy,” Craig said.

Martin held up his hand.

Clouds had dimmed things a little.

Troy and Craig leaned on the dumpster and I sat on an overturned bucket.

We finished our beers.

A station wagon pulled into the alley and parked by us.

Three guys exited.

One of them knew Troy.

They worked for a church in the neighborhood.

They were delivering food in tied-off plastic shopping bags.

Troy got three bags off them and also a pair of pants.

“Anks so much, guys,” Troy said, holding the pants up. “Great.” He folded the pants over his arm. “So, where else you guys at tonight then?”

One guy said, “Just came to swing by here, then uh, think we’re going down by the bridge and”—he looked at another guy.

The other guy said, “Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Troy told them about another place to go to drop off food, under a bridge by the river.

“Oh thanks, thank you,” said a church employee. “So, you guys good tonight? Everything good?”

“Yeah,” Troy said.

“Yeah,” I said, waving my fist a little, like ‘Hell yeah, man.’

Troy said, “Ey, really, anks for the food and everything. Real sorry, like, we been boozin and everything.”

One of the church guys said, “No, don’t worry about it.”

Troy said, “Ey, come on, let’s have a prayer before you guys leave. Here.”

We all held hands in the alley.

On one side I was holding Craig’s hand and on the other side I was holding one of the church guy’s hands, on a dumpster lid.

A church employee started the prayer with, “Lord our Father, please continue to love and guide us. We thank you for the food you have given us to share.”

Nobody said anything for a little bit.

The guy who started the prayer said, “Troy, you wanna—”

Troy cleared his throat. “Lord Jesus, thank you for wakin me up today.”

There was a long pause.

A guy from the church said, “In Christ’s name.”

People said amen.

“Alright, later guys,” said one of the guys from the church.

We all hugged before they got back in the car and drove off.

Craig squatted with his back against a dumpster, opening his bag.

Troy sat on his bed, opening a bag.

He picked up the unopened bag and handed it to me.

“Here man, have at it,” he said.

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

Each bag had two sandwiches, beef jerky, an apple, a juicebox, chips, and a bottle of water.

In a bag within the bag, there were shaving razors, deodorant, and hand sanitizer.

Troy immediately began to sort his stuff.

“Poppin Strawberry,” he said, looking at the juicebox.

He gave me his extra sandwich and a bag of chips and an apple.

Craig was chewing, holding half a sandwich. “Troy, gimme that other sandwich, man.”

“Nah man, I only got one. I gave the other one to him.”

Craig looked at me. “Lemme get it, man.”

I shook my head, laughing. “Oh my.”

Craig smiled. “Come on, man.”

He started proposing trades.

“I’m not really attracted to any of those offers,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich.

Troy said, “Man, kinda feel bad bout all the Jesus shit since we been boozin. Smokin stones and shit.”

Craig said, “Man, me too. Talkin bout prayin and shit and we out here all drunk — ackin stupid.”

“Ah well,” Troy said, opening a small bag of chips. He laughed a little and barked out some mucus. “God don’t judge, y’know?”

We ate in silence.

The sandwich was some kind of lunchmeat between bologna and salami.

I liked it a lot.

To say I only liked it a little, this would be a lie.

Craig threw some tomato slices over his shoulder. “Man, these tomaters suck.”

“‘Tomaters?’” Troy said. “What is that, some nigger sh — hah, no pun intended.”

Craig lowered his head, laughing.

He let his head hang for a second then looked up at Troy.

“Man, I got a fuckin job and a home and a wife and kids, and you out here.” He pointed at Troy. “You stupid, Troy. You really stupid.”

Troy laughed. “I know I know. I’s just playin, man. Settle down, hah. I’m a fung bum, man. My place smells like dookie and piss for fuck sake. Don’t lissna me.”

Like all the things you like about someone are things you see in a way that makes them complimentary.

And all the things you dislike about someone, same.

I walked around the corner and pissed on a garage, backing up on tiptoe to avoid the puddle.

Said bye to Troy and Craig and got walking.

It began to rain.

And for a second, I thought it was my job — as appointed by the city — to be outside to like, greet the rain.

To welcome it.

And who better than me?

Fucking no one!

This afternoon there was a voice message on my phone — from Spider-Man.

The message was choppy but I heard ‘library’ so I walked by the library and Spider-Man was out front, using the outlet to charge his phone.