Guttersnipe

by Matthew Trigg

  Chapter 79

  It’s been two weeks.

  Roger’s kept a wary eye out for Maynard. He thought Maynard was just going to pop up out of nowhere. Like some ridiculous magic trick. There’s no doubt Maynard knows some kid-ish card gimmicks or magic tricks or something stupid like that. Just hope to everything Maynard doesn’t find a top hat or a rabbit or a handkerchief or a wand or whatever. Roger couldn’t stand seeing him again.

  But no Maynard. No nothing.

  Just the regular for Roger; lazing by the river, hiding under the picnic area during the rain, going to eat at the buffet or the mom and pop diner stop or finding something at the grocery spot.

  Even Shitfur has been mildly tolerable. But that’s only because he’s been leaving every now and again for maybe a day or two.

  That’s when it’s quiet.

  That’s when it’s nice.

  Roger’s had time to think deeply and now feels much closer to his goal, that goal, that something behind the dark black cement curtain.

  Progress.

  Good.

  He even laughed for the first time in a while, though, it had been because Shitfur had been chased by a dog throughout the whole park and up a tree.

  That was good.

  The first few times Shitfur left, Roger couldn’t get it out of his mind that the cat could possibly be gone forever. The thought kept him up at night, the possibility of freedom. This meant little time for deep thinking.

  But now Roger knows that little shit will be back.

  Always.

  Always.

  Roger has stopped hoping now and just tries to get the most out of the quiet thinks he gets.

  Quiet.

  Nice.

  Good.

  So good Roger almost feels like he could go puke in Save-Mart again. He could make it to the electronic section this time for sure, or hold it until Captain-Chad-refrain-from-using-a-brain is right in front of him then ralph all over his twice ironed pants and shirt. Roger’d make damn sure to get some on Chad’s watch too. A watch that probably tells the time, the temperature, the wind speed and origin, his schedule, how much gas he has in his car, how fast his hair is growing, stock listings, coupon deals, movie times, etc.

  It probably says something about when his last period was too.

  And an estimation of when the next one will be.

  The more Roger thinks about the idea, the more he realizes now that puking at Save-Mart has shown nothing.

  It’s not Roger fault, though.

  He knows this now. He knows it’s because people’s eyes and minds aren’t open and ready to be shown something like that. That’s the problem. It’s not only the materialistic addictions but also the addicts themselves.

  Well there’s at least two ways Roger can think of off the top his head which could be solutions.

  One is to cut the drug from the druggies. But that’s next to impossible. Even if he did somehow accomplish this, they would just go and find another supplier or another drug.

  Hungry whores.

  Impotent consumers.

  Arrogant analists.

  The second way is to attack the roots of the loving-money tree. Roger knows this is what has to be done; the only problem is how to do it. And without any help.

  Just as he feels he’s is closing in on the method, he sees Shitfur trotting across the grass. He must’ve found somewhere to get food or something like that back when Roger tried to ditch him by going to Hermit Bridge.

  Damn cat.

  Chapter 80

  This goes this way for a while.

  Roger tolerates Shitfur until he leaves again. Then it’s time to think more on his plans.

  The longest Shitfur’s been gone seems to exceed itself with each new absence. He’s been gone for four days now.

  Four days.

  Where’s he going? This stretch of time is too long to think he’s just going to get some food.

  Did he find someone else?

  He better have.

  It’s five days now.

  Six.

  Seven.

  Eight days.

  He’s not coming back this time. Shitfur is finally gone.

  Roger watched for at least an hour each night for the past three nights hoping he isn’t going to see that dirt-shit cat come prancing back.

  Nine days.

  He watches.

  Nothing.

  Not until just before he’s asleep on the tenth day. It feels like it’s raining but it’s just Shitfur licking Roger’s face with a cold and wet and slimy and grungy tongue. Nothing like what a cat’s tongue should be.

  “Meow.”

  Shit.

  Chapter 81

  It’s about time to bathe again. It’s been at least two months.

  Maybe longer.

  Roger has forgotten what day it is. And the month and the year. There’s no real reason to know because most of his food spots aren’t based on the days.

  It might be Wednesday. It’s a weekday for sure.

  Maybe not Wednesday. Maybe Friday.

  Probably.

  It’s bathing day. That’s what day it is. Roger pulls out the bag of pink soap from his backpack.

  Shitfur is sleeping yet. It’s late morning, maybe noon.

  Time to bathe.

  Roger strips down to his undies. He’s going to need some new clothes soon. Shirt, socks, and undies. The shoe-boots are still holding up just fine.

  Shitfur wakes up as soon as Roger walks into the water. He watches Roger intently, ready to swim out if he has to.

  No tricking him this time.

  After a bit Shitfur lazes back into a comfortable position as soon as he knows Roger isn’t going anywhere.

  Like Roger’d waste his time like that again. Like he’s going to try the same thing.

  Stupid cat.

  Half the bag of soap is gone by the end of Roger’s bath. He used a little more than what was actually needed.

  But everything’s definitely clean now. It takes Roger twenty minutes to completely groom himself, complete in the sense of necessity.

  Twenty minutes, and that’s every two months, roughly.

  There’s people out there cleaning themselves off for half of the day. Brush teeth, comb or straighten or gel or hairspray or trim hair, shower, shower, shower, moisturize skin, tan, god damn makeup, cologne, deodorant, what to wear, toenails, fingernails, nose hair, uni-brow, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc…

  Groom.

  Groom.

  Groom.

  And when that’s done, why not groom other stuff too?

  Sanitation shit.

  Scrub toilet, wash dishes, vacuum, dust, laundry, organize, pesticides, lawn care, sweeping, mopping, etc, etc, etc.

  They waste their lives with that shit. The same old shit everyday.

  Wax the car.

  Welcome to the presentation nation of habitual idiots.

  Paint the walls.

  Welcome to the can’t-see-anything-but-what-there-is-to-see nation of mind stagnation.

  Replace the auto air fresheners.

  Welcome to the place-where-you-go-if-you’re-bad-in-hell nation.

  Fluff the fucking pillows.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Maybe the day those people die it might be clean enough for them to at least do that.

  Hopefully it isn’t a bloody death.

  But if it is, someone else will clean it up.

  Clean the toilet.

  Scrub the blood out of the carpet.

  Rinse those dishes.

  Pick up that trash.

  Vacuum.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Die.

  It doesn’t make any sense, but maybe that’s because Roger lacks their supreme ignorance.

  Maybe ignorance is the key to understanding.

  Yea fucking right.

  Twenty minutes, tops. That’s all someone needs.r />
  Chapter 82

  On the way to the diner stop Roger sees a bum. It’s the first bum he’s seen in the area since he’s been here. He looks pathetic. He’s sitting on some steps just off the sidewalk holding a rusty coffee can.

  Begging.

  Begging., for Christ’s sake.

  Almost everyone ignores him. He’s used to it. What’s weird is when someone actually gives him some change, then he gets so awkward and pitiful he can’t even speak.

  Roger walks right by him, chin held high in the air.

  What a pitiful sight.

  The bum doesn’t even look at Roger. His eyes look like they would cry if they could, but they’re too worn out already.

  Roger keeps moving.

  Two blocks before Roger has to turn into the alley where the stop is, he sees a car accident. Some hum-dumb-pickup-driving farmer rams into the back of a four door car. He’s going pretty fast just before impact.

  There’s no screams, just the dull, no echo crunch of the cars meeting.

  The hick-pickup cowboy steps out of his vehicle and the first thing he does is check to see if there’s any damage done to the front of his baby, his truck.

  Horns start honking. Lots of horns.

  The cowboy walks over to the car he just hit. It’s totaled. Probably a foot shorter than before. The back end is somewhere in the middle now.

  Roger watches on without sympathy. Really he’s watching for the entertainment of it all. This is what they get for their immense greediness.

  A younger lady is getting helped out of the passenger’s side of the car because the driver’s side door won’t open. She was the driver and the only passenger of the four door vehicle.

  Typical. One passenger in a car that can hold four if not five. That’s twenty-five percent efficiency, and that’s going by only four people.

  The cowboy says something to her. Roger isn’t close enough to hear it. She doesn’t like whatever he just said.

  There’s blood coming from somewhere around her forehead. It’s not much, but enough to see from thirty feet away.

  Honk.

  Honk.

  Honk. Honk. Honk.

  Someone yells something.

  More honking.

  What a perfect example of failure. What a perfect example of over indulgence, of unknowing, of disregard for anyone else, of comfort within comfort within comfort, of what happens when the expected doesn’t happen, of a guide which points the exact direction in which humanity as a race is going.

  A hundred miles an hour into a brick wall. Mother Earth is sitting in the back in a car seat.

  Sirens grow in the distance.

  Honking.

  Yelling.

  They’ll tear themselves apart at this rate. And pave the road to hell with the bodies of the dead.

  Human nature isn’t natural at all.

  Roger moves along.

  Chapter 83

  The whole day turns out to be shit.

  On his way back from the diner, Roger sees the begging bum again. This time he says something to that vile piece of shit.

  First though, Roger grabs a handful of dirt from someone’s urban garden nearby. He brings it to the begging bum and puts the dirt right in his begging can.

  The begging bum doesn’t look up; he just keeps staring slightly down and at nothing in particular. He can feel the weight in his can, so he tries to nod and smile and tries to say something but nothing possible of understanding comes out.

  “That’s what you need.”

  The begging bum winces from hearing Roger’s words and tone.

  So pathetic.

  “Look in your can.”

  He hesitates a second, then reaches in and feels the dirt. He cowers again, afraid of Roger, wondering when the first punch or kick or something might come.

  “Wh-what is it?”

  “It’s dirt.”

  “What d-d-d-do y-you mean?”

  “It’s dirt, and yet it’s cleaner than any of that filthy money you ask for every day from even filthier people.”

  The bum sort of groans weakly.

  Roger is getting pissed.

  “Don’t sit here like this, don’t beg for money. You’re no better than them if you do that.”

  “I’m uh-uh-uh, not-t-t sure what you mean?” The bum never looks up at Roger, probably because he’s too scared.

  “Christ. Go out and find your own food is what I’m saying. Provide for yourself.”

  “Bu-”

  “But what? You can’t because you’re depressed? You can’t because you lost your fucking job and can’t get over it? Christ. You are a man, provide for yourself like one.”

  The bum begins to cry even though his eyes are too tired to produce tears.

  “Stop it, damn it. I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that?”

  “N-no.”

  “No? Why? Because you don’t want it? Because you are too afraid of something? Why?!”

  “Sir, please, I-I’m blind.”

  Roger stops talking. He stares at the old begging bum. He feels something other than hatred or discontent; Roger stares like he’s been slapped in the face and no one is around.

  He was wrong. Roger was wrong about this man. And look what his assumptions have caused. Look at the poor old man; so dependent, so weak, so helplessly needing of other people’s pity in order to survive.

  Roger can’t handle the situation. He needs to leave.

  Now.

  Before he does though.

  “I, I’m sorry.” He whispers, probably not loud enough for the blind man to hear.

  Chapter 84

  Roger avoids that area for the rest of the week.

  After that, Roger’s been in such a funk that there is rarely a moment when he’s not thinking about that blind bum. It consumes him so much he doesn’t even take notice to Shitfur stealing a few pieces of bread straight out of his hand.

  Roger was wrong.

  He just wanted to help.

  He wanted to show the old bum something about himself.

  Instead, it all went hell wrong.

  Why did Roger think of him like that? Why did he think it is the bum’s fault for his state of living?

  A haze hangs in the mind of Roger.

  Chapter 85

  Two weeks now.

  Roger ate maybe six times.

  Shitfur’s been gone for the past two days. Maybe it’s been longer, Roger hasn’t been paying any attention to the cat.

  It’s starting to rain.

  Roger doesn’t move to the picnic area like he usually does when it rains. He’s just sitting there with the rain starting to come down harder and harder.

  Chapter 86

  It quits raining the next day.

  Roger hasn’t moved other than for water and to go to the bathroom. It’s been long enough for Roger to forget when and what his last meal was. His body has begun to shake as well as his vision blurs.

  Roger staggers to his feet.

  Maybe some pie. Pie sounds good. Cherry or apple or something.

  Shitfur is still gone.

  Roger needs pie.

  Mom and pop pie.

  Cherry or apple…or something.

  It takes him twice as long as normal to get to the spot. He finds a different route to avoid where he messed up, where the blind bum might be. But don’t think about that.

  No pie when he gets there, just some stale cinnamon raisin bread. Roger eats it all, tough without water to soften it.

  The food does him well.

  On his way back Roger passes by a television store. And there on one of the screens of the displayed televisions in the window is Mr. Red, White, Blue and Gold himself, Robert Goldsmith. In the advertisement, Bob is standing exactly in Roger’s spot by the river. His stance is broad, with on knee slightly bent. Those fucking bastards used his spot.

  Roger can’t hear anything Bob-no-brain is saying because of the window, and he wouldn’t want to if he could. He sta
nds there, though, watching this unfold.

  The ad commercial pans through a few city shots then goes back to Bob. He’s always fucking smiling or grinning or sinning or something. The screen cuts to a bullet-type format. The first listing says:

  ‘Lower taxes for the middle class.’

  Then it shows some average Joe cutting his lawn, all happy like. This guy is nodding his head back and forth and whistling.

  Christ.

  The second:

  ‘Better medical insurance for everyone.’

  It shows some kid coughing his lungs out. He’s smiling though, because the doctor just gave him some medicine.

  The third and final bullet:

  ‘Help to create more jobs for more people.’

  Then it shows Roger. And there’s Bob Golddick-slick-as-a-lubed-dildo talking with Roger.

  No way.

  There is no fuck-shitting way that bastard just used Roger for political gain. That mother-cunt-bitch bastard.

  Roger’s so dumbstruck, so smitten, so outrageously pissed off, all he can think about Bob being brutally beaten.

  Over.

  And over.

  And over.

  And over.

  The ad ends.

  A regular commercial comes on.

  Roger has no clue about what he should do right now. He can’t go back to that politically-twisted-tainted-filth of a place. Not where Goldshit prematured his political semen.

  Not right now.

  Not for a long while.

  Not today.

  Not until Roger can get Bob’s Satan face out of his mind.

  Roger needs to do something. Something radical. Something that will justify the putrid, mind-possessive images of the campaign ad. Something that includes his greatest resource.

  Trash.

  The shittiest, smelliest, nastiest trash he can find. Top that with some grease-trap-top-layer-skim filth and call it a shit sundae. Call it a bum bomb. Call it the vagabond’s vengeance.

  He’ll go back tonight to the TV store. Roger will break that window along with as many TVs as he can manage with his trash-bag-makeshift-rip-on-impact-ooze-everywhere bomb.