How can I refuse?
He doesn’t ask for much.
It isn’t like he’s wanting a million bucks. I don’t have that anyway. Never had, never will. And Barry’s my real friend- I don’t have many of those. Fair weather ones, yeah, I got plenty. Foul? I can count on one hand. And the weather around here is mostly foul. That’s a Pacific Northwest joke, get it?
I can’t say no, after all he does have a hot date for Thanksgiving dinner.
There they are at the front of the line. He’s playing gentleman, giving her his coat to protect her from the rain. And she’s drowning in it, just a little slip of a thing. Former tweaker Barry says. That meth will whittle you down to skin and bones. Skin stretched tight as an overdone turkey. I’ll bet she’s not been clean long or she’d have put on a few pounds. Mission food will do that if you’re not burning it off with crank.
I’m back more than halfway, holding up the dirty concrete wall. I’ll still get in before the food runs out. They sometimes even have enough for seconds if you want to wait around until everyone’s fed. Last year a waiter from a high class restaurant volunteered and wrapped the left-overs up in foil birds.
At least here I don’t have to pay for my grub by having some self-righteous snob try to stuff Jesus, Mary and Joseph down my throat with the cranberries. Like I wouldn’t just barf them up. Man like me has no room for the nicey-nice of religion in my life, even though Mom always hoped I’d be a preacher.
‘Rafael,’ she’d say, ‘you’ve got the spirit of God in you.’ God, no. Spirit, yes. I always did like spirit as long as it came out of a bottle of Jim Beam.
Even from here old Barry looks good. He’s smiling away like the cat that ate the canary. Or maybe the cat in that old cartoon where the girl goes down the rabbit hole. A little Disney on acid. That cat’s smile still haunts some of my dreams, part of my flashbacks the Vet counselor says. But on old Barry it looks good.
Me? I’ll have to pass on the turkey, stick to the potatoes, gravy, and the jellied cranberry sauce. Maybe some dressing if it’s nice and soggy.
Here it is two weeks later and I’m still gumming mostly potatoes, gravy, and Wonder bread. Barry and his little ex-tweaker split town. Maybe she wasn’t so ex. Or maybe that old warrant Barry used to brag had magically disappeared, finally reappeared, just like that Cheshire Cat and his grin. And the cops caught him by the tail.
Now I’m left wondering how I’m going to sweet talk the Vet dentist into springing for a new set of teeth.
Image by Becky Kjelstrom