by Wayne Jackson (1951-1989)
That’s me, I thought, strange around the edges, the ultimate jackoff, the big ripoff, bloodsucker king, the fuck you man man, the boy lost in a crowd, lip pouting fool. So what? Big damn deal. To hell with it.
It’s something to laugh about. Sometimes I’m not so nice. I’ve got memories to prove it.
We topped out that night at Alfreds. Harry went first, of course. We left him leaning and hugging the fat barmaid, wimpering about some God damn dog he had. Big deal.We’ve all had dogs before for Christ’s sake. Then James. No weepy scene this time, just peacefull dreams in the alley. I left him my coat and walked off. A block later I got cold and went back. “Dream on you shivering bastard”, I said.