MAN, THEY GOT ME IN THIS DADGUM chair. It wouldn’t be so bad, not like when I was out on the streets–no, man, back then there weren’t no straps, no ties keeping me stuck in this chair. Hell, was it a chair? I haven’t been to the dentist in some few decades, I suppose, not since long before the first time they came and raided my tent. But at the dentist, you know they might call it a chair, but they lean you so far back it feels like a massage table–and hell, some of those dentistry helpers could pass as masseuses, if you asked me.
The dentist doesn’t zap you, though.
This brown leather strap buckled across my forehead definitely makes me think I’m not at the dentist.
And all because—zzzzz!
This dadgum chair, man. And all because what? I didn’t do nothing wrong, no I didn’t. I was just trying to help that girl, is all. I swear it, old gods and the new. I’m not even the one who put her in my tent. This lady just came by, saying she needed someone to watch her for a few hours. Said she had an errand to run, she did.
And, in street lingo, that might very well have just meant that she needed to get her quick fix. Some quick fix she had. Fuckin’ lasted four days. And I gave the little girl soup. Big red cans. She must’ve had me heat up something like four cans of soup each day she was with me. I’m only grateful that I had found a whole case of Campbell’s sitting outside the Safeway, otherwise I would’ve been mighty upset that this munchkin–that wasn’t even mine–was clearing out my stores.
But I had enough back then, I did. Had so much, in fact—zzzzz!
Nothing, man. I didn’t do anything to that poor girl. And she wasn’t even my kid. Some tweaker just went right ahead and dropped her off at my tent. For days.
Wasn’t even my kid—zzzzz!
You ever tried to spend more than four hours in a tent by yourself? It’s all but impossible, unless you’re on a bender. And I didn’t think it fair to be on a bender when I suddenly found myself responsible for this rotten little mutt–who was eating all my soup. It wasn’t my fault what happened to her.
I had to get out of that tent. I spent almost two whole days in that thing with the girl, only coming out to let out some piss. I didn’t have enough to eat to even have to relieve myself in the other way. I was too stressed out, being responsible for this mutt–and how many days was I supposed to watch this thing? She wasn’t even my kid. I heated her up two cans, told her I’d be back in a little bit. I left, ran up to a green post that said FREE LIBRARY on it, and got her, some bright pink book that I thought she might enjoy. Reading was never my thing, but kids gotta learn at some point, eh? She never said much really, mostly just ate her soup. And when I gave her the book she took it, she did, and she looked at it like she might be just a bit interested.
But only just a bit.
I left again, taking my own hiatus, doing my own thing–that’s all you can do on the streets: your own thing. Just wanted to get out of the tent, that’s all. And when I got back–zzzzz!
I just needed to get out of there, just for a bit. I even went and got her a little pink book. I can’t even remember the title but she seemed interested in it, I think. I guess she must not have been. She must have been up to something else. Something else on her mind, ‘cause when I got back to my tent, there were at least five cop cars parked out front. I didn’t even have time to hide my pack of cookies before they were swarming.
Who are you? Is this your tent? Do you know this little girl? How do you know her mother?
What did you do to her—zzzzz!
I didn’t do nothing! I told ‘em as much.
But I looked right past them and saw the mama–can’t even remember her name. What kind of mother leaves some little mutt with a guy she don’t even know his name? And I looked right past them and I saw a body on the floor. Dunno what happened, told them that, too. I haven’t even seen the mama–zzzzz!–in at least two days. Maybe even three days. Oh yeah? Why is there a knife under my pillow? Hell, you ever lived in a tent? You should be happy all I got is a knife under my pillow. You’re under arrest for the murder of one Jane Doe. Anything you say can and will–zzzzz!
And the last thing I can remember between these leather zaps is that rotten little mutt. Holding her pink book, can of soup in hand. She says ‘Sorry, Mister.’
I just fuckin’ bet you are. // JACKSON RUIZ
Art by Joey Gonyeau
