Episode 23 – Enemy Territory
I’m in a total panic. Feel helpless without my wallet and cell. What was I thinking? Obviously, nothing! What a dickhead! Figure my new life will end quick if I can’t find my school ID and social security card. Run flat-out for the 79th Street trash can…legs pumping like pistons…sweating like a fucking pig.
Starting at 86th Street, police are everywhere. Something’s definitely going on…sirens whooping and an invasion of blue uniforms. I stay alert. No way I want to come face-to-face with a serial killer. Reach the trash which…no surprise…is overflowing. Fuck! Look around. Don’t see the bag lady, anybody. The park’s amazingly quiet except for the background noise. Check for psychos. Turn my attention to the task at hand.
The trash thingy is one of those round jobs with a small hole in the top and a trap door on the side. I try to knock the fucking thing over, but it’s heavy as shit…probably a cement base. I get fucking nowhere…so…I lie across the top, half my body in the hole digging through the crap. So fucking nasty! Puncture a baggie and my fingers come out covered with dog shit. Christ! Jump down. Wipe my fingers in the grass, but they fucking stink. Resume my search anyway. Finally, find my backpack and books, but figure my wallet and cell have sunk to the bottom. Stretch way down…balancing…head first, like a fucking raccoon. My hands are slithering in and around cans, paper, plastic bottles, half-eaten lunches. Cut my hand, nothing serious…keep going. Germs don’t freak me. Plague’s the least of my worries…gotta find that wallet.
I have a brainstorm. Back out, and try the side door. Can’t believe I didn’t try it right away, but my mind’s racing. See police searching the bushes. What’s the fuck’s going on?
The latch is encrusted with ungodly shit…stuck…maybe requires a special tool or something. I kick the crap out of it…finally pops open. Hear voices. Glance up. Police are staring. Fuck! I whip open the door and pull out the can…turn it upside down on the path. Holy fuck! Police are running toward me. I scatter the garbage…see my shit. Scoop it and run. The police are on my tail screaming and yelling. Expect to be tackled any second, but the adrenaline’s surging. I’m losing ’em….but shit, they’re calling for back-up. What the fuck did I do?
I head toward the East Side. Don’t want them to know I’m actually heading north. I’m flying…leaping fences, like a fucking gazelle!
The cops are still yelling. “Kid, stop! We want to talk!” But I’m thinking bull-fucking-shit…don’t trust them. Plunge into the bushes…swerve between trees…leave the fucking paths behind.
Finally, they fade away and I cut north. Reach 125th Street. Thank god! Melt into the crowd. Not a police car in sight. Work my way back to the shop, but suddenly realize people are staring. Look down at my clothes. Jesus! There’s stains, even dog shit. I see a doughnut shop, go in, buy a glazed…then head to the can. Try the door. Fuck! Locked. Wait like twenty minutes. Finally, an employee comes out with a newspaper. What an asshole!
Inside, I pull out a shitload of paper towels, soap ’em up, and scrub the shit out of my jeans…literally. Thank god it’s Summer, or I’d be wet and cold. Rub so hard I sprout a bone…itches like a motherfucker, but I’m not about to jerk off in a rat hole…too scuzzy…and I need to get going. Pull off my hoodie and shirt. Try to wash them, but the hoodie’s all stained, and has the school’s fruity logo, so I toss it. Loop the wet shirt through my belt and walk out. I’m shirtless…get a few stares, but nobody gives a shit as long as I’m leaving.
Check my cell…a zillion messages, but ignore them. It’s 5:30 and I’ve got to dry off by 6:00. Yank out my shirt and whirl it as I walk. Figure I look like a dick brain, but no way I want to show up for work looking like a derelict. Run a couple of blocks to dry off, then head to the shop.
To be continued….Read next episode!