Spider-Man checked them. “Dahhhhhhh, ey good-lookin!” he said, passing me one.
It had a black and white picture of his head.
It said, ‘Janiya D— Jr.’
He put the IDs in his pocket. “Man, when I went to get these shits made, I fuckin walk in and they playin a movie in the sitting area. And what movie was it they playin? Spider-Man. Wooooo!”
DJ folded up his wallet and put it in his pocket. “Hell yeah, man.”
Spider-Man said, “Man. I always cry watching that motherfucker. Always.”
“At the end or something?” DJ said, wiping hair off his blade.
“At the whole thing!” Spider-Man said. “Hayo yeah, man.”
He went over almost the entire storyline of the movie, using the sound effect ‘Zshoo’ a lot.
He was running all over the alley, getting exploded out of things.
The Happiness Inc. guy stood up and untucked his T-shirt from beneath his breasts, holding his stickers in the other hand.
His body odor was worse than mine in a way that made me want to worship him.
“You gonna put those up, man?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, looking at the stickers. “If there’s anywhere fuggin dumb-ath Weed Wolf didn’t yet. Jeez.”
Weed Wolf was a guy who wrote ‘Weed Wolf’ on post office stickers then put them up everywhere.
“Man,” DJ said, holding his razor out. “If I ever see Weed Wolf”—he held the blade a few inches from his face, moved it around over his eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks—“I got a buck fifty for em. Hundred fifty stitches to the face.”
He smiled at me.
Spider-Man said, “Dahhh, plastic surgery, bro. Wha’s really goin on!?”
“Hell yeah,” DJ said. “Buck fifty for the bitches.”
Spider-Man talked about this biker gang a mile west and how they cut an X onto a dude’s face if the dude was a pedophile or rapist or possibly neither.
A drop of water fell from the train tracks and put out his cigarette.
Perfect shot.
He checked the cigarette, put it behind his ear.
“But nah, them biker dude’s baaaaaad motherfuckers, man. Gah be kiddin me. They don’t use guns. They use knives, bricks, bats, tire irons, crow bars, wrenches. Don’t fuck with them. That’s nuts. Fuckin bananas.”
DJ said, “Yeah, if you’re a Chester the Molester, them dudes will fuck up your life. You’re done.”
He told a vague story occurring a few years earlier where a body was found in the area, throat cut open and stuffed with a severed dick.
Then he paused, took a deep breath, and pinched hair off his razor. “Ok, I have to go to work.”
He pocketed his blade and walked away under the train tracks.
A train passed overhead and he held up both middle fingers.
Spider-Man and I finished our beers.
He looked down at his Air Force shirt and said, “Hayo yeah.”
He showed me the other clothes in the bag — getting out each shirt to hold it up against himself then turn his head to the side and angle it up, blinking twice.
I referred to each shirt as, “Marvelous,” “Fantastic,” or “Exquisite.”
And they were.
RED JELLY
I saw Janet out front of the post office today.
She had a cup in her lap, collecting money.
I asked her if she wanted something to eat.
She said, “Um, jes, peez.”
“What do you want?”
“Um, anything is ok peez.”
“What do you want? I’ll go get it.”
“Um, I think, so-thing sweet.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Um, gum?”
“Gum?”
“Jes peez.”
“What about food?”
She smiled and started laughing.
Her head bobbed up and down from a slouched position.
“Ok, um, a burrito peez,” she said.
I went down the block and bought her a burrito.
I dropped it off with her and offered to push her back to the alley but she said she’d be there later.
In the alley, Spider-Man was sitting on an overturned bucket and drinking a tallboy of coconut-flavored malt liquor.
He took out a pack of Dark Horse brand cigarettes and lit the last one.
I got out the bamboo chair and sat in it and told him it only felt like 80 % bamboo.
“What, fuckatta here,” he said, ashing into his empty pack.
He gave me a brief price history of Dark Horse cigarettes, including various places to buy them, the cheapest of which was at the California Blue Line stop — which then segued into a story about when he got arrested there.
“Man,” he said. “Du, I’s fucked up. I’s dressing like Spider-Man and riding on top of the train. I thought I’s Spider-Man. The Spider-Man.”
“What?”
“Gah be kiddin me bro!” he said, smiling. He listed on his fingers. “I wore the white shoes, blue sweatpants, red tanktop, and a Spider-Man mask. From the Damen stop to the California stop. What!?”
I was laughing. “How did you not die?”
“Nah it’s easy bro,” he said. “You go in between cars and grab the handle and hop up — bwoop — gotta be kiddin me. You have to lay down though. And get off before that shit go underground. But nah man, that shit was awesome. I’d get myself a beer, leave it behind a bench, then ride on top of the train a couple stops, get off, grab another beer. Shit man, I’d slap hands with little kids at stops and whatnot. They thought I’s Spider-Man.” He ashed his cigarette. “But yeah, one time when I got off the cops were there and they arrested me and locked me up in the hospital, haha.”
A train slowed down and came to a stop right above us.
Spider-Man stood up quick.
He grabbed my shirt and said, “Get up.”
We moved.
He pointed at two oil stains on the ground by where we were sitting, fresh drops.
“At shit’ll burn you,” he said.
He laughed and held up both hands, curling his fingers and dragging them down his face while looking straight up so his eyes were mostly white.
In an extra-raspy voice, he said, “Guhhhh…no…my face! Burning from the oil…guhh.”
He knelt down, reaching up, then quickly turned around, still kneeling.
He spun his head to make eye contact with me, covering the rest of his face in the inside of his elbow.
“Don’t come near me,” he said. “I’ve — changed.” He did deep breaths that sounded like “Sersh…sersh…sersh.” He yelled, “I said get away!”
“I can help!” I yelled, holding out my hand.
He stood up, laughing.
“That’s my shit, man,” he said. “Gah be nuts. Fuckatta here.”
He grabbed his tallboy and took a big pull and sat back down on an overturned bucket.
This other guy I’d met at Danny’s — Face — he walked up from the other end of the alley holding a 40.
“Wha’s good, Janny?” Face said, clapping hands with Spider-Man.
Spider-Man said, “Ey man.”
Face and I clapped hands and patted shoulders.
“Face,” I said.
“Where I recognize you from, cous?” he said.
“Danny’s.”
“Aw shit, that’s right, cous.”
We sat down.
I gave Face the bamboo chair and I sat on an overturned bucket.
Spider-Man got a call on his phone.
It was Janet calling from the post office.
Her wheelchair wasn’t working.
Spider-Man went to go help.
“Smash this bitch with me, cous,” Face said, opening the 40.
I took a pull.
Face got out a Ziplock bag with some cigarettes he’d bought at the park.
“Now, I’m telling you, jo,” he said. “At least two of these mine. Don’t care what Janny say. Feel me?”