Witch Piss

by Sam Pink

  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.’

  THANK YOU FOR WAKING ME UP TODAY, JESUS

  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.”

  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!

  TENTS

  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.

  “Ohhhh, wha’s good man!” he said.

  We hugged.

  He kissed my cheek and said we should go meet up with Janet.

  First we went to the 7/11 and got some King Cobras.

  “What happened to your old spot?” I said, exiting the 7/11 and holding the door for him. “I haven’t seen you.”

  “Dahhh. Man, I gave that shit up. We at Janet’s so long, you know, the car rental place, they cleaned it up. Shit, you kiddin me? Did me a favor! I couldn’t move them beds. Hell nah. You need some fuckin tools to clean that mess, nang! Needa fuckin crane, fuckin bulldozer.”

  I pictured a bulldozer pushing his bed away as he sat on it, holding onto the sides yelling, “Gah be kiddin me!”—Janet speeding behind in her wheelchair.

  “But nah, we over this way now,” he said, pointing somewhere.

  We walked to a vacant lot near a different section of the Blue Line tracks.

  The ground was mostly rocks and glass.

  They were living up against a brick wall with a mural spraypainted on it.

  Janet lay on her side in a sleeping bag, playing a game on her cellphone.

  Ten feet away I saw an adult diaper stained with shit and blood, a pinched wad of bloody gauze next to it.

  I sat on the rocks and glass, hands in my pockets to keep warm.

  It was October and getting cold already.

  “Yeah, we only stayin here like, two weeks though,” Spider-Man said.

  He rested a piece of luggage up against the wall and sat on it.

  They were moving to Las Vegas on Halloween.

  They’d have Janet’s disability checks and Spider-Man would try to get his job back cleaning up hotels and casinos.

  �
��Last time I’s there,” he said, “I had a job and an apartment the first day. First fucking day, du.”

  He mimed unsheathing a sword from his back and went, “Shiiiiiiing…fuckatta here.”

  He showed me the things they’d be taking with — two pieces of luggage, a reusable grocery bag, and two sleeping bags.

  Without looking up from her game, Janet said, “Buh, beb. Ya bitch is hungry. Hehe. Shit. Dayum.”

  Spider-Man reached into his hoodie pocket and took out a 7/11 deli sandwich, halved and stacked in cellophane.

  “Ok,” he said, “but it’s just 7/11 sandwiches.”

  Janet rolled over onto her stomach, reaching for the sandwich.

  The sleeping bag unzipped a little.

  She was naked from the waist down.

  She moaned a little, “Ahh, beb, shit, fock. Ahhh. Hep, peez.”

  Spider-Man took her hand and helped turn her over as he read the back of the sandwich package.

  “They put so much shit innem now,” he said. “I don’t even know half this shit — fucking enzymes and shit. Fucking CO2 or some shit haha. The fuck!?”

  I was looking at the mural spraypainted on the brick wall.

  It had aliens wearing basketball jerseys DJing records that were pizzas, hearts with keyholes in them floating through outerspace, dinosaurs holding bow and arrows, floating hands dropping sand, the moon, rockets, swirls, cats.

  Spider-Man told me about how he was there when the community helped artists paint the wall a few years ago.

  Everybody set up a little camp in the lot, and they grilled and spent time with other families in the neighborhood.

  “I mean yeah, we’re going to miss everybody,” he said. “Our first trip back probably won’t be for a long time, but — it’s whatever.”

  Janet said some things about what Las Vegas would be like — as though repeating things Spider-Man had told her many times.

  “Ey, there’s Keith,” Spider-Man said. He pointed to the alley across the lot. “KEITH! EY, KEITH!”

  Keith was walking through the alley, trying to balance with his head down.

  I’d heard Spider-Man and others talk about Keith.

  Something about not smoking Keith’s weed.

  Something about PCP.

  Embalming fluid dipped joints.

  Walking around talking to streetlights.

  Something something.