He’d drawn ‘Happiness Incorporated’ on one, in bubble letters.
Another one said, ‘Peace, Love…Happiness Incorporated’ in bubble letters.
I handed the stickers back to him.
Janet said, “Um, beb, can you peez hand me uh, the uh, juice, peez. Shit. Dayum.”
Spider-Man grabbed a juicebox off the ground and put the straw to her mouth.
She took a sip. “Thuh, thank you, beb.”
Spider-Man set the juicebox in her lap.
On the front it had a picture of a neon strawberry and it read: ‘Poppin’ Strawberry!’
“Aw shit,” I said. “Poppin’ Strawberry.”
Janet bit into some rolled-up turkey.
She smiled. “Shit hehe. Dayum. Fock dat.”
Spider-Man said, “Dahhhhh, shit’s poppin!” He cleared his throat. “But nah, that’s our favorite one. There’s that one, then Rockin’ Raspberry, and something else. Right babe?”
Janet didn’t say anything, just kept chewing.
Spider-Man said, “See man? She don’t listen to me. She hate me.”
Janet said, “Hey, wuh, watch it”—pointing a roll of turkey at him, her hand shaking.
Spider-Man laughed. “Oh shit. I better hol up. She’a whoop my ass.”
Janet smiled. “Thass, ruh, right. Doe fock with me. Shit. Fock dat. I’m Puerto Rican.”
She bit into another folded piece of turkey and chewed, her mouth open.
Spider-Man and I laughed.
“She ain playin, man,” he said, leaning back on his milk crate chair, back against a dumpster. “Man, I fucked up one time, she ran my ass over with that wheelchair.”
I looked at her wheelchair, parked next to him.
It had a huge battery and controls on the armrest.
Spider-Man said, “That shit’s heavy, du! She ran over my foot, right over the bones. Hurt like a motherfucker. Member babe?”
Janet nodded, chewing with her mouth open. “Shit. Fock dat.”
“But, ey,” he said. “That’s my girl. I love her. She my doll. You need me, right babe? I help you. Brush your hair. Clean you. I help you.”
“Um, jes,” she said. “Thank you, beb. Shit. Hehe.”
“Man we been together 15 years,” Spider-Man said. He leaned back and took a pull off his 40, maintaining eye contact with me. He raised his eyebrows up and down. “15 years, bro! I love her. She gave me my youngest daughter, Yanita.”
“How old is she?” I said.
“She 12, but she’a whoop that ass, bro.” He laughed. “Wooo. She mean! She with the grandma now but man, she my heart. I love her.”
“I’m Puerto Rican,” Janet said, pointing to herself with a roll of turkey. “Shit. Dayum.”
“Yeah, Janita whoop that ass, man,” Spider-Man said. “She in karate. Plus she Puerto Rican. Plus dude, I’m Black/Irish/American-Indian and British.” Then in a deep, booming burp, he said, “Nang!”
Everybody laughed, even the Happiness Inc. guy, who looked up and said something I couldn’t hear.
I took a pull off my tallboy.
Spider-Man told me about how he used to get government money for taking care of Janet and how he will again once he gets his state ID renewed.
Also, once he got any kind of picture ID, he could sleep over at Janet’s assisted living apartment.
Janet had a full apartment — shower and everything — but she slept out here in the alley with him because he couldn’t get in without an ID.
“Shit, but ey,” he said. “She my baby. She even let me bring other women home sometimes, man.” He stood up and started pacing. “Hayo yeah, man. We eat other females alive. Like a porno here. Got one lickin the other’s pussy while I do one from behind. Takin pictures on my cellphone and shit, what!?”
Janet finished some turkey and wiped her fingers off on her garbage bag diaper.
“Muh, member, how I was when I get um, mad at you, beb,” she said, her hands up by her chest, shaking.
Spider-Man laughed and clapped his hands together. “Man, any time I bring another bitch back here, I always gotta make sure I do Janet first. Otherwise she’a kill me. She’a whoop my ass!”
Janet was smiling, staring up in different directions.
Spider-Man said, “She’a whoop my ass bro, come on!”
I laughed, feeling happy to be alive for three seconds.
Janet said, “Ey, um, beb, can you peez help me so I can go to the poath office peez?”
Spider-Man helped her into her wheelchair.
Her diaper made a swishing sound when she sat.
He took off her hat, straightened her hair, and put the hat back on.
She pointed at her lips.
Spider-Man kissed her.
She pointed down towards her crotch and said, “Gimme, a, a double. Hehe, shit.”
Spider-Man looked at me and made a face. “You gotta be kiddin me!”
Janet laughed. “Shit. Bye, bebby.”
She drove off in her wheelchair — out of the alley and onto the sidewalk — going towards the post office with a cup in her lap.
Spider-Man said, “Oh shit, look at this shit, man.”
He took out a cellphone from his pocket and started scrolling.
He licked snot off his nose.
“Hol on, hol on,” he said, moving his thumb sideways.
I took another pull off my tallboy.
“Bam, there it is,” he said. “Nang!”
He came over and showed me his cellphone screen.
“Your phone is nicer than mine,” I said.
“Check it out. I chat with this bitch like every week on the internet.”
He showed me a picture of a woman with insanely big tits.
“They’re double Z’s,” he said, wiping his nose. “Biggest in the world, man, gah be kiddin me. They’re filled with air, bro. I talk to her once a week online. She from Vegas.”
He scrolled through women, a big white loop of snot hanging from his nose and lip.
There were women with names like: BB Guns, Tiffany Towers, Pandora Peaks.
“Man, I saw Pandora Peaks at a bar,” Spider-Man said, shaking his head. “I’m in Vegas. I’m at the bar. I turn around. She’s coming up to the bar for a drink. I said, ‘You’rrrre Pandora Peaks right?’ She like, ‘Uh yep!’ Man, she hugged me, and I’s pressed up against her. Man, I fell to my knees.”
“Shit,” I said. “Fuckin bananas.”
He laughed. “Fell to my knees bro,” he said, holding up his hand.
“What does she do? Is she a stripper?”
“Nah, she just hangs out at bars, makes appearances, has a website. Some of the girls do porn. Tiffany Towers does porn, but she just sucks cock and eats pussy.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah,” he said, “No uh, no intercourse.”
“This chair is comfortable. What is this, bamboo?”
“Dahhhhhhhh. Fuckatta here.”
Then this guy walked up from the other end of the alley.
He was wearing baggy jean shorts, a college football jersey, and a backwards baseball hat.
He had a long chin-beard.
Spider-Man said, “Ey, whattup DJ.”
“Whattup whattup,” DJ said.
He slapped hands with Spider-Man then me.
He sat on a parking block and took out a straightedge razor.
“Good morning to everyone,” he said, touching the blade with his thumb. “Just woke up. Fucking slept at the park. How’s everyone doing?”
He started shaving his cheeks a little, pinching the blade on either side to wipe off hair.
He shaved parts of his face, arms, and legs while we sat there drinking.
Any time a train would go over us, DJ would look up and point one or both of his middle fingers at the tracks.
He told me about how he worked at a church nearby, making temporary IDs for people.
“Oh yeah,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He took out his wallet and handed some temporary IDs to Spider-Man. “There you go, girl.”