Guttersnipe

by Matthew Trigg

  Roger walks on, sulking, brooding, molding a maddening frustration. Something tells him to say sorry, to at least turn around and see what he’s doing, but his anger out-wills the sympathy a thousand to one.

  A god damn T-shirt that says Maynard.

  That’s just great.

  Chapter 12

  Today was bad.

  Roger needs to get away from this Thursday. The only thing he can think of is his bridge, Hermit Bridge.

  He’s never had to go there two nights in a row.

  Never.

  It’s too holy and untainted to him. Roger is afraid that somehow it might get spoiled or tainted or something like that if he goes there too much. Like some disease will attach itself to the heel of Roger’s shoe and just wait for the nicest place to spread its filth. And there is no place better for that than Hermit Bridge.

  That can’t happen. That’s the only truly quiet spot. Yea, there’s other bridges along the river, but they’re all smack in the middle of the city. And there’s usually other bums at those spots. And those bridges are big and nasty and way too refined.

  God damn it. Roger might snap. He might snap or he might have to give up.

  First there wasn’t enough soap.

  Then the burger.

  Then the bike cop.

  Then Maynard.

  And then Maynard’s fucking shirts.

  Something hideous starts to swell inside of Roger, but he’s exhausted. He gives up. The anger beats him like stray dog.

  He turns to melancholy.

  Too much frustration today. Roger is beat.

  He even half asses his melancholy mood.

  He’s too tired to be angry, too angry to be sad and too sad to even think of being happy.

  Just get to the bridge.

  Get to Hermit Bridge. He knows it’s selfish and risky. What if Maynard somehow follows him? But he needs this. He just needs to get to the bridge.

  No more anything. No more anybody.

  Chapter 13

  Roger wakes up just before sunrise.

  Water trickles sound.

  Relief.

  He’s alone in this quiet place. A gentle wind plays the sound of leaves.

  God, he needed it. If he didn’t get out last night, he might not be alive now. Something would’ve gone wrong.

  Haywire hell wrong.

  Yesterday is done though. Today is Friday.

  Not Thursday.

  Not Thursday.

  Something like pride flickers inside of Roger. He’s proud of what happened yesterday, proud in a very weird way about how much shit he took, how he let himself be defeated, how he knew what would’ve happened had he kept fighting. Sometimes you just have to cut your loses. It’s smarter to know that than it is brave to keep fighting.

  It could’ve been bad. Insanity-inviting bad.

  A fight not possible to win.

  A self-induced struggle.

  Masochistic-crumbling destruction.

  Cut the losses. Get over it.

  Get the hell over it.

  It’s a loss but it’s not entirely giving up.

  Today is Friday.

  Free food Friday. It’s everywhere. People throw so much shit away on the weekends. Dumpster buffet all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Anything you want, really.

  Time to work. Time to start sucking shit off the bottom of the tank.

  Roger usually goes to the college neighborhood because of how much pizza and beer he can find. It’s pretty nice, no other bums will go into that neighborhood. A bum going into a college area is like a zoot-suit-white-guy-executive-bullshitting-business-man walking through the ghetto. It’s guaranteed someone is going to mess with you.

  College kids hate bums. They hate bums more than they hate not getting laid. Well, maybe not that much, but it’s in the same circle.

  If they see a bum, and they’re drunk enough, which is more common than not, they’ll usually heckle the bum then eventually start physically pummeling the shit out of him. This happens if the kids are too sober, too.

  ‘Hey you wanna beer, you sorry piece of shit?’ Whips an empty beer bottle.

  ‘I got some pizza here, but there isn’t any dirt or maggots on it, is that okay? It costs extra to add toppings.’ Whips a slice of pizza.

  ‘Dude, dude, watch this.’ Trips a bum.

  Kicks a bum.

  Punches a bum.

  Shoves a bum.

  ‘Nice, bro. Let’s go drink ‘til we puke.’

  Roger isn’t scared of that shit. He’s been beaten up so many times already. He’s even upped his pain tolerance so much he can maintain himself while getting the shit kicked out of him and laugh while it’s happening. That just leads to a more severe beating, though. Roger doesn’t do that very much anymore. These days he just accepts the beating then goes off to search for more food.

  These days Roger has been losing some of his ambition. These days Roger doesn’t puke in Save-Mart. These days Roger doesn’t laugh at dumb-ass-muscle-head-trying-to-get-in-bed-with-some-ladies college bros who kick the shit out of him. These days Roger doesn’t stand up to law-enforcing-bike-cop-wristwatch-short-shorts-showing-off-their-calf-muscle policemen who tell him he is disrupting the peace. These days Roger doesn’t do much more than what he needs to in order to get by.

  There’s something wrong with Roger. He can feel it. He can feel something like a sad rock sitting in his pocket weighing him down. He can’t feel his old fervor anymore, his old self. He used to have a drive enough to stand up against the insanity of the world, to stand up against the maddening selfishness, the overwhelming ignorance, the blind bold bravery in enduring pointless pain. But now...

  Now.

  Now he’s losing it. And of all the things he doesn’t want, this isn’t one of them.

  He needs this.

  Bad.

  Stop it. Thoughts like this only fuel the flame.

  Fight it.

  Fight it.

  Fight for the sake of life. Rest was enough last night. Fight it!

  If Roger thinks he’s losing it, then he will. It will be time to give up and turn in to the everyday-submissive-milk-producing-cow. He’s not ready for that. He will never be ready for that.

  Not today.

  Today is Friday.

  Today is laugh at the misguided college kid who will probably be pounding on Roger’s face, ribs, gut, back, breaking his nose, etc.

  Today is Laugh-Ass-Friday.

  Chapter 14

  Roger is laughing so hard at this cock-jock-block-head who’s beating the living shit out of him right now, or so the tough guy tries desperately to do. It probably doesn’t help this kid’s ego when Roger keeps laughing after every blow.

  Now Roger can feel the pizza, which he found in the dumpster, getting ready to make a comeback. It’s not so much because of the beating, but more the laughter. This is what he’s been waiting for to happen.

  “You think that’s fucking funny, huh? How about this?” a harsh kick to Roger’s shoulder.

  Roger keeps laughing. He’s hardly defending himself beside his crotch and face.

  “You homeless piece of shit! You don’t even deserve my trash!”

  Roger is lying on the ground, nose bloodied. He’s smiling and cackling. It’s dark, but a street lamp sets an orange, menacing glow.

  This jock must be a soccer player. He kicks a lot.

  Before all this happened Roger found half of a pepperoni pizza in a box which was jutting out of a garbage can. He didn’t even try sneaking up to it like he usually would. Tonight he just casually strolled up to it , almost with a bit of swagger, swung the lid open and starting chowing down the pizza.

  Three dudes who were chilling on the porch watched this bum start eating the pizza that they paid for, and out of their garbage can. They started heckling Roger, yelling dumb words from their idiot mouths.

  Roger just kept eating. He got three of the four slices down before the beating began.

  He
remembers some mom from the park near the river telling her son something like this;

  ‘You need to wait at least forty-five minutes after you’re done eating before you can play, otherwise you’ll upset your tummy.’

  Oops.

  Roger messed that up.

  His stomach is upset. Really upset.

  Oops.

  “Keep laughing, mother fucker, we’ll see how funny this is.”

  The cock-jock stands Roger up. The dizziness from standing up too fast adds to the queasiness. Roger gets really light headed, to the point where the edges of his peripherals dim just slightly.

  “I got a good joke for you, bitch.”

  Here it comes. Roger’s excitement peaks.

  He gets kneed hard as hell right in the gut. Pop.

  Projectile pizza puke all over the jock’s pants and high-fly Docs.

  “Ugh! What the fff-”

  Roger tries to laugh, but just pukes more. It hits the guy in the face this time because Roger stood up straight.

  “Holy , Beh! Oh Jes- Ugh!” The jock pushes Roger over and just wants to kill him, but he can’t bear the feeling or smell of being covered in puke.

  His two friends are watching in amazement or horror or something as the cock runs inside to shower and puke some himself.

  Roger gets up, blood running from his nose. He feels much better. His mouth tastes of puked pizza and fresh blood.

  There’s the pizza back, bro.

  Roger grabs the last slice of pizza and limps off. He tries to hide the limp but he’s pretty messed up. Happy, but messed up.

  Satisfied.

  Chapter 15

  Roger waited for his nose to quit bleeding before he started eating the last slice of pizza. He sat down in the gutter and enjoyed his prize from earlier. He has a purple dark bib from where the blood fell to his shirt and coat.

  Roger can feel his whole body right now. Blood is pulsing, muscles are throbbing, bones are aching.

  And it feels good. He can feel his whole body, his whole living being hard at work repairing itself naturally.

  He can feel it.

  Roger’s happy again. Content with his personal victory.

  Content for now, anyway.

  Chapter 16

  Saturday comes and goes. Roger lazes down by the river, recovering from his wounds.

  The sun shines through the whole day. A slight breeze keeps things comfortable. Tiny animals come and go paying little attention to Roger. The bright green of natural life in its prime of the year calms Roger as he studies it.

  Sunday comes and goes.

  It’s been a good weekend.

  Roger feels now the fire in his soul has been reignited by this little spark. He feels it beginning to burn wildly. It’s warming him and keeping him alive. He wants to go to Save-Mart after finding some Chinese food. He wants to sabotage a cop’s bike by popping the tires. He wants to tell Maynard how dumb everything he does really is, how pointless, wrong, how far his actions are beyond the nature of things. He wants to straighten out this crooked world. He wants to show it just how backwards and corrupt it’s become.

  He wants to.

  He needs to. There isn’t a question in his mind of what needs to be done. It’s just a matter figuring how to do it.

  And he will.

  He’s going to show society exactly what it needs.

  Or what it doesn’t need.

  Cars.

  Jobs.

  Social acceptance.

  Fences.

  Flowerbeds.

  Money.

  Security.

  Over-comfort.

  This is just the start.

  All they really need is food, water and shelter.

  And to open their minds.

  Roger will show them.

  Extreme example.

  Extreme protest.

  He can do it.

  He’s ready this time. This is his time.

  He’s ready.

  Chapter 17

  Power in numbers.

  That’s what Roger needs. He’s been thinking about his plans all Monday and Tuesday and has realized where his weak spots are at. He thought it out very carefully, trying to cover every aspect.

  Just one bum yelling and screaming?

  Look like a loony doing that.

  Roger sees now.

  Now Roger knows what he needs. Power in numbers.

  Who, though? That is the first road block.

  He doesn’t have any friends, he doesn’t want any either. But he’s going to need people in order to do this. Not friends, though. Comrades.

  But Roger doesn’t even know people.

  Maynard…

  Maynard??

  Don’t fucking fuck around.

  Jesus shit.

  Then Roger remembers where he first met Maynard. Dark Alley. That’s the perfect place to recruit. It’s where nearly fifty bums congregate every Wednesday night to enjoy a free, somewhat tasty meal. Dark Alley is located in a slums part of the city a little southwest of the river. It’s the divide between two brick one hundred year old apartment buildings that, as far as Roger knows, have been abandoned. Cops never show up there unless they have a serious reason to. It would serve as an excellent headquarters for meetings.

  Maybe that group. Maybe they know another group and so on and so on and so on and so on all across the country. It would spread like a wildfire guided by gasoline. The whole world would change in a matter of a few years.

  Roger begins to imagine an entire army of anti-possession, anti-material, realized bums marching on his command. Marching straight into Save-Mart and puking on entire shelf-rows of tickle-me-Elmo’s, furniture, Martha Stewart Collectibles, CD’s, DVD’s, fake trees, pop star posters, blue jeans, home appliances, every single piece of shit commodity that breathes stagnate fumes of this hellhole nation.

  Yea.

  Tomorrow night.

  It starts tomorrow night.

  Chapter 18

  It’s late afternoon, Wednesday.

  Roger is nervous as shit.

  What the hell is he going to say? He hasn’t thought much about what he’s going to say, the excitement of what could happen mused him for too long.

  His nose feels pretty bent up. He can tell when he exhales through it the air isn’t hitting his upper lip and beard, but rather that spot between his cheek and mouth.

  That shouldn’t affect the speech, though, not if Roger can find the right words. That’s what matters.

  Stay focused.

  He can do this.

  Roger can do this.

  -

  Roger counts twenty bums present. That’s less than usual, a lot less. Less than what he was expecting. Roger’s seen this place with at least fifty bum at one time.

  Not good.

  But no Maynard.

  That balances out.

  Most of the bums are hanging around the barrel which has a fire going in it. Fifteen people around the barrel. All men.

  Okay, here it goes.

  Roger finds a spot in the circle and begins to warm his hands. He doesn’t need to because he’s already sweating and nervous as hell.

  “Hey, guys.” Casual, cool.

  A few of the bums look up. One says something like hi. Another just grunts, every one of them with a beard longer than Roger’s hair. Every one of them with dirty, hardened faces with wrinkles like cracks in a wall.

  These are Roger’s Warriors. These bums have been beaten by everything in this made up thing called civilized life, and that’s exactly why they are so perfect for the job. That’s why Roger finds his words. That’s why this is going to work. Because these bums have nothing to lose.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Recalled fried up eggs and bacon.” Says the bum who said hi earlier. Roger recognizes everyone in the circle, but doesn’t have a clue what any of their names are. He’s never talked to any of them. They’ve never talked to him.

  “Good, I’m pret
ty hungry. Where is everyone at tonight?”

  A grunt come from somewhere around the circle.

  “The homeless shelter is having a huge banquet tonight.”

  “Oh.” This little bit of information pisses Roger off, he hates homeless shelters. But this isn’t going to stop him or set him off track. This is his moment. “My name is Roger.”

  No response. Maybe someone nods, but Roger doesn’t see it.

  He continues. “You guys seem like some tough, smart mother fuckers, which is just what I’m looking for.” Roger begins to imagine himself as a captain in an army, but the army is not of today’s army of violence and ignorance. He pictures himself as the captain of the army of intellect.

  A few bums look up at him.

  “I need some men who know this world, who’ve really lived in it, experienced it, seen it and felt the corruption of what’s going on with it. I need men who want to change what’s wrong, men who hate the blind direction it’s taken. I need men like you.”

  Every bum around the circle looks up at Roger. He’s rushed with a mad excitement. He has their attention. The nervousness goes away.

  Keep going. Go.

  “I need men who despise the so called corporate wise. I need men who know the ways of living with little, and know just how little we all really need. I need men who’ve seen their own blood and aren’t afraid to see it again! I need-”

  “Shut the FUCK up!”

  Roger stops, mouth hanging wide open like the gates of hell.

  “Hang on, Chris, let him finish.”

  Roger looks over, closes his mouth, clears his throat and continues, “What, uh, what I’m trying to say is that I need you to help me.”

  “With what?”

  “To show this world how wrong these people are living their lives.” Roger states, puffed to hell with pride and confidence despite the small outburst a moment ago.

  Parts of the circle start to laugh. More a chuckle and shaking of the head.

  “And just how are we going to do that?”

  “Manners of extreme protest.” Roger firmly pounds his made up fist into his other flat hand.