“Fuck yeah,” I said, looking at the doorway. “This is really nice.”
I squatted and took a pull off my 40.
People passed on the sidewalk.
He asked them for money.
“Hey sweetheart,” he said, to a girl with a big ass.
She said hi, smiled at us as she passed.
I took a pull off my 40, waving to her.
And we were there for each other.
For however many seconds, we completely justified each other.
“It’s nice out,” I said.
The guy in the doorway said, “Hey, yeah, that’s ok buddy, because I gotta hit the bed anyway.”
He held out his hand through an open flap in the tepee.
I looked at him for a second.
“Oh, ok,” I said. “Night, man.”
We shook hands and locked thumbs.
He lay down, curling up under his blanket.
I walked off, drinking the rest of my 40.
Imagining myself in the homes I passed.
Using the furniture.
Walking from one room to the next.
Smelling the kitchen.
Sleeping in the bedrooms.
Hearing the sounds.
Touching the walls.
Why not.
My 40 was down to the bottom eighth.
Mostly backwash.
Witch piss.
I threw it into a dumpster behind a gas station and walked the rest of the way with my hands in my pockets and my head down.
A nice method.
Ah yes, very very nice.
By my apartment this rat came out from beneath a car and ran down the alley.
Gone.
Take me with.
Things like that.
Things that seemed possible but only if you were desperate enough.
DANNY, DUKE, SPIDER-MAN, AND EVERYONE ELSE AT THE WIG PARTY
Next time I walked by the doorway there were a bunch of guys there, and also a dog lying on the sidewalk.
Everyone except the dog was wearing a wig.
They all introduced themselves, starting with the guy who lived in the doorway, who said, “Eyyyy, you remember me, right? I’m Danny.”
But he’d never told me his name.
So it was Danny, Troy, who just stood up and walked away drunk, Spider-Man, Too Tall, and another guy sitting in the doorway holding a leash on Duke (the dog).
Danny’s friends.
Listening to the radio and wearing wigs.
“What’s good, man?” I said, slapping hands with Danny.
He had a blanket over his legs, drinking fruit-flavored malt liquor.
“Shit, just drinking,” he said. “Lissnina Sox game.”
Thox.
The Thox game.
Said they’d been celebrating earlier for some other guy’s birthday.
Which meant he had more friends than me.
And a better social life.
And more wigs.
This one guy — Spider-Man — he tapped my arm and touched his blue-tinsel wig.
He laughed, raspy.
“Ey, aren’t ch’gon ask about my beautiful hair?” he said. Then, a little quietly, he said, “Y’gotta be kiddin me”—giving me a look that meant “Y’gotta be kiddin me.”
“Yeah, what is this shit?” I said, touching his wig.
Danny laughed, ashing his crooked handrolled cigarette.
He was wearing a black-haired wig sideways, bangs on one side and long curls on the other — his toothless smile and gray-stubbled cheeks laughing beneath.
He said, “Somebody left me a bag with some sweaters and some wigs in it this morning.”
“Somebody left you wigs?” I said.
“Yeah, thith morning,” he said.
He laughed, tongue through his missing front teeth.
Everyone else laughed.
Spider-Man yelled, “Wig time! Wha’s really goin on? Woo!”
Duke stretched his legs out on the sidewalk and licked his lips.
I wanted to grab Duke by the cheeks and kiss the top of his head, holding my lips against his head for a little while, going, ‘mmmm’ then ‘whaa!’ when I finally released the kiss.
Duke, who loves ya!!!
“What do you guys want from the store?” I said. “I’m going.”
Everyone said yeah, and get this, get that.
“I’m just getting a case of beer,” I said. “What about Duke. Does he need anything?”
Spider-Man yelled, “DUUUUUUKE!”
Duke lifted his head off the sidewalk, licking his lips.
The owner barely had his eyes open, rubbing his face.
He took off his wig and set it on Duke’s head, but it slid off immediately.
“Nah, Duke’s good,” he said. “He just sleepy from walking around all day.”
“No, I’ll get him something,” I said. “What does he need?”
“Ok. Some treats, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
Yeah, fuck yeah.
Everybody needs treats.
I went to the 7/11 and got a 30-pack of beer and some dog treats.
The dog treats were designed to look and taste like bacon.
The package had a crazy-looking cartoon dog on the front, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, eyes sticking out.
Fuck yeah.
Duke, are you even ready for this shit?
Back at Danny’s, I gave everyone a beer — except Danny, who wouldn’t drink anything except his watermelon-flavored malt liquor.
I gave Spider-Man a beer.
“Hayo yeah,” he said. “Thanks, du.” He opened the beer and took a pull. “Mmm! Spicy! Ey so I went and saw [recently released comic book superhero movie] again. Maaaaaan, gah be kiddin me, woo! Fuckin amazing. Fuckin bananas.”
He talked about the movie, which everyone but me had seen.
Most of them had seen newly-released movies at least once.
They celebrated birthdays, had get-togethers, saw movies, owned pets/wigs.
Jealousy.
The burning jealousy.
“Luh that movie,” said the guy standing next to me.
Too Tall.
Too Tall was wearing a wig of like, silver/old-lady hair.
He had on a huge T-shirt and corduroy pants and Velcro shoes.
He was only a little taller than me and everyone else there, with a big stomach.
He’d just been standing with his hands and back against the building, humming to himself.
I handed him a beer.
“Man, shoot,” he said, smiling. “Thanks enough, jo.”
He opened the beer and finished it in two pulls.
Spider-Man did little dances for people who passed by on the sidewalk, letting his long tinsel wig flip around in front of his face and mumbling, “Y’gah be kiddin me.”
Too Tall gestured at Spider-Man with his can and said, “Ey, that man, shoot, he a great artist. F’I had some money, I mean, when I get my break, I’ma support him. Because what he do, he great.”
Too Tall put his can on the ground and stomped it, catching the gray wig before it fell off his head.
I put the crushed can into a plastic bag with a few others.
Too Tall said, “Yeah, man. Shoot. He get hisself some paper, he draw anyone that passes. Tell you.”
“Gah be kiddin me,” said Spider-Man, stopping his dance.
He raised his eyebrows up and down, smiling.
He mimed shooting a basketball, jumping backwards, wig waving.
His clothes — if washed — were nicer than mine.
Plus he had a good attitude and his jumpshot looked better.
Overall, I liked him more than me.
Too Tall said, “He see yo face one time”—splayed his hand over his own face—“an he draw you exactly perfect.” Shrugging. “He do.”
Spider-Man lit a handrolled cigarette and told me about some comic book characters he’d created.
“Oh, I got heroes, gah be kiddin me.” He held one wrist with the other hand and said, “Ice Man.” He was staring straight forward dramatically. He pointed his hand forward, still holding it by the wrist. “Shing shing. Gotta be kiddin me. Got ice powers. Shing shing. Boosh.”