Short Story / Garbage (Part Two)
Krysta’s arm shook a little as she bent over the mirror. The white lines stared back at her. She caught her reflection, and quickly snorted and sat back up. Her black-rimmed eyes had a haunted look that she didn’t like. She grimaced as she wiped her nose, and then laughed a little. Her companions leered and continued their conversation. The larger man draped his arm around her. She was pretty sure that he would be the one. The girl and the other two guys were already high on some sort of stuff that she didn’t even want to think about. Another twenty minutes and they would be gone.
Suddenly, a visceral and intense memory flashed in her brain. She was four, and a blonde woman was pushing her on a swing. She was laughing so hard, it was causing the woman to laugh too. They laughed together until the woman could no longer push her. She grabbed the little girl and held her tightly
Her head started to hum a little. The coke was taking effect quickly – much faster than she was used to. She smiled a little, and then laughed drowsily. It didn’t really matter, anyway. Her heartbeat picked up, and she was beginning to feel light headed. The man with his arm around her took notice.
“Hey babe,” he muttered to her huskily. His breath smelled rancid, but she was too buzzed to mind. “You wanna get out of here?”
She giggled and her hand traced a circle around his knee. “Go somewhere a little more… private?” She asked suggestively, and licked her lips. Thank god for the carrie. She would have been too embarrassed to ask if she wasn’t high.
The large man didn’t seem to mind her inebriation. He helped her to her feet, and even propped her up when she stumbled a little. He threw a few bills down on the table in front of the stoners, and they both walked out the door.
“Oooh, it’s cold out here,” Krysta squealed as the night air hit her. She crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “I should have worn a jacket.”
“I think you look hot,” the large man said, his eyes lingering over her miniskirted body. He leaned in clumsily for a kiss, but she caught him on the chest.
“Woah there, tiger. We have a little business first?” The coke’s not that great, buddy, she thought with another giggle. She wished she could remember his name.
“Oh, right,” He looked disappointed, but not surprised. “How much?”
“Ten for a blow job. Twenty for the real deal. Fifty, and I’m yours for the night.” She smiled at the big man sweetly. He was at least twice her age, if not in his forties. He was large and unattractive – exactly the kind of man she knew she could win over.
He opened his wallet and rifled through with a grimy hand. “Thirty for the whole night,” he said after a minute. “I got you what you’re enjoying so much now.”
“Hazards of the job,” She retorted with a seductive smile, not bothered by the callous haggling one bit. “We didn’t have a contract. At that point, it was pretty much a gift.” She smiled again, and stuck out her leg slowly onto his. His eyes narrowed at contact.
He moved fast for such a big man. He grabbed her by the wrists with one hand, and forced her back into the alley, pinning her against the rough brick wall. His face was inches from hers, and she could feel his fetid breath on her face. In her state, there was really nothing she could have done anyway.
“And what are you going to do, sweetheart, if I say no?”
As his hand traveled up her skirt, all she could think to herself was, Damn. I’ve got to get a pimp.
Danny watched the needle the way a starving dog looks at a ham hock. By now he was an expert at tying off his arm, even enjoying the tight, bloodless feel it took on. He imagined that it was someone else’s arm sometimes, especially after the H had started to take effect. He inserted the needle into his vein, as smoothly as a trained nurse, shaking a little from anticipation. The sweet liquid drained in, and he leaned back, waiting for the hit.
A year ago, he would have laughed at such a scene. Four dirty guys huddled over a squat coffee table, shooting drugs into their arms like kids at fat camp who are suddenly given chocolate cake. Bare, pockmarked white walls, a black light ICP poster, a broken orange couch, and two La-Z-Boys; a little TV with rabbit ears, for god’s sake. If he had been with his old friends and seen them as an observer, he would have felt pity, probably said some callous joke to make his friends laugh, and walked by. He was kind of a jerk back then, any way.
It was taking longer than usual. Danny had actually been noticing that for some time – it was taking slightly larger amounts to get him high enough to stop thinking for a while. Hell, when Andy had first introduced him to smack in their later sessions, Danny had been shaking so badly he had missed the vein and had to have the psychologist do it for him, and he still was instantly higher than a kite for hours. Now he was lucky to get one hour for a hundred bucks. One hour of peace.
He felt a flicker of anger for a moment. What the hell had Andy been thinking, anyway? Giving hardcore drugs to disturbed teenage kids. “Expanding their consciousness.” Bullshit. The bastard had just been looking for a quick buck, that’s all.
If only his damn parents hadn’t been so concerned with his future. That was the funniest part – his own parents had forced him to see Andy once a week, due to his “increasing antisocial tendencies.” If they’d just left him alone, like he wanted, maybe their son wouldn’t be a heroin addict.
He picked his head up a little, noticing that the other guys were already on the floor, lost in drug-induced reveries that he could only dream of. He had never thought of himself as a heroin addict before. The euphemisms, street slang, had always shielded him from that last truth.
Then his limbs suddenly grew heavy, and his eyes drooped. The drug hit him, and he didn’t have to think anymore.
Danny staggered out of the apartment two hours later with only his guitar. He neatly stepped over a whore sitting in the stairwell and ignored a bum on the street begging for money. “I just need a little quick cash, man, my kid at home don’t have diapers even…”
He felt dizzy and strange. That trip had been unlike any other. He would bet that they laced their heroin with some other sort of drug, and made a mental note of the address so he could come back again. He even laughed a little when he stumbled and fell into a pile of shiny black garbage bags full of trash. He lay there for a minute, trying to regain his equilibrium. The sky looked nice today, he noticed. Hazy and almost green, kind of like his eyes. He had his moms eyes. His moms everything, actually. His sister was more like his dad, and they had always been close.
Why was he suddenly thinking about the life he had left behind? He had left for a reason, though he couldn’t really remember what that was at the moment. He didn’t remember much, actually, but that he had always been vaguely unhappy. Andy may have been a prick, but he had taught him ways to deal with this unhappiness, to call it out into the open and flip it the bird. He didn’t have to worry anymore. Life was better now. Danny was sure of it.
He sat upright, and reached for his guitar. He lovingly removed it from its case. It was nothing to look at (if it had been, it would have been stolen long ago), but it was the only thing Danny had that really mattered to him. The mood to play hit him wildly and without warning, but he obeyed it like he did all of his other basic instincts – without question. He didn’t really control the music, but then again, he didn’t really feel that he needed to.
He strummed a chord, and, being no poet, hummed a note to match. Another chord followed, and soon he was losing himself in the rhythm of a strange song only he could hear. A businessman coming out of the porn shop down the street looked down at him as he went back home to his wife and three kids. Here was a dirty teenage heroin addict sitting in garbage, playing a $50 guitar on the streets of the slum at dawn.
It was beautiful.
Krysta hadn’t bothered to get up from the alley where the man had raped her. True to his word, he had been with her all night, and upon taking his leave had placed two wrinkled bills in the grime of the street, next to her outstretched hand. She had been staring at them for hours. They were mocking her. She wanted to scream, but she was too afraid that she wouldn’t hear herself.
Her head felt too clear, she was too aware of her surroundings. Somehow hooking hadn’t really felt wrong. More of a necessity than anything else. Besides, it was her body, and she could do with it what she wished. But now even that semblance of control had been taken from her, and she didn’t know what to do. The dead presidents’ faces were spattered with filth. Thirty dollars.
Thirty dollars.
Thirty fucking dollars.
She had a flash of herself on the swing again. Her mother. The woman pushing her was her mother. How could she forget?
Krysta realized she was crying, but it felt strange. She hadn’t done it in a while, and while she knew it was normal considering her situation, it still felt surreal. It wasn’t normal crying; her face was completely blank, but tears were pouring out of her eyes and mixing with the tar and oil on the street. She wiped them with her free hand, and noticed that her wrists were bruised where the man had grabbed her. Perfect.
She looked at the money again. She didn’t want to get up. A rock was digging into her side, and her skirt was ripped up to the waist, but she didn’t even bother trying to cover herself. It would be nice to sleep, but if she slept, she thought that she might not wake up again. And she was afraid of what she might dream.
Just die and get it over with, she thought to herself. Fucking whore. Dad was right after all. An image of him almost came to her, but she shut her eyes against it. She needed some drugs first. Then maybe she wouldn’t be so afraid to sleep.
She staggered to her feet unsteadily, bracing herself against the rough brick wall. She roughly dug her hands into it until they bled, seeking support, enjoying the grating feeling on her palms. She stood, buttoned up her shirt, and twisted her skirt around so the rip was up her thigh instead of the front. She knew that her mascara had run all over her face, and her hair was greasy from lying in the street and not bathing, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Bending over, her hand hovered over the bills in the street. It doesn’t make any fucking difference, she thought fiercely, and snatched them up.
Suddenly, she heard music coming from somewhere nearby. A song she had nearly forgotten.
Danny had finished his song, and looked up to see three people standing around him. They were smiling at him, and his guitar case had at least ten dollars in it. He managed a shy smile as the onlookers applauded and began to play a slower song, one more familiar to him.
As he played, a girl crept out of the alley next to him, and stopped. Her bleached hair hung lankly around her face in strips, and makeup had run down her face in dark rivers from her eyes, but he could tell that she was pretty under it all. From her clothes, he guessed that she was a hooker. She squatted next to him in the garbage and seemed entranced by his music. She was nodding slowly to the beat, and suddenly she opened her mouth and began to sing along in a husky alto.
My Johnny was a shoemaker, and dearly he loved me.
My Johnny was a shoemaker, and dearly he loved me.
My Johnny was a shoemaker, but he’s gone to sea, stormy sea.
He sailed across the sea.
He didn’t stop playing, but looked at her for a moment, and she stared back. There was a hint of a smile in her eyes, but it was hidden behind a haunting emptiness. “My mother used to sing that song.”
Danny looked down. “I didn’t realize it was real… I thought I made it up.”
She also looked away. “It’s a good song. Sad.”
At this point, his onlookers had left, and the sun was beginning to illuminate the clouds above him. Danny heard a wrapper skitter across the road, and the wings of a pigeon as it flew to roost in the rooftop above him. The girl was staring at the trash at her feet. He could smell her scent, body odor and sex, but also something warm, like cotton. Everything seemed excruciatingly sharp and clear to him, and still he kept playing.
Suddenly, he felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach. His hands went stiff, and the guitar slid off of his lap into the filth of the street.
“What’s the matter?” the girl asked, her eyes wide with alarm.
Danny began to breathe heavily, and he could hear his blood rushing past his eardrums. The girl’s voice echoed in his head. Something had been wrong with that heroin. It was perfectly clear now. He even remembered the thug’s faces as they had led him to the drug house. He remembered the hot desert sun beating on his face as he pretended to sleep on his way into this city.
He remembered screwing that ex-cheerleader in Aspen. He could feel the cool sheets that her daddy had paid for rubbing against his legs, and remembered what it had felt like to finally be clean for a day. He remembered the countless hits and lines and tokes that got him across the country. He remembered being molested by that man in the pickup, glasses glinting in the light – he was probably somebody’s dad, the sick fuck. He remembered being robbed in Philadelphia his first week away from home. He remembered packing his belongings into his book bag, and the way the nylon straps felt on his fingers the night he left his parents’ house. He remembered the looks on their faces as he told them to go to hell. He remembered doing hits in Andy’s garage with his friends, playing darts or video games for hours and hours, and not worrying about a thing. He remembered laughing after they did lines of coke and vandalized the school gym. He remembered trying pot for the first time, the look on Andy’s face as he held the joint in front of the boy. He had been a boy then.
The blood was rushing past his ears at a faster pace now, and he was finding it harder to breathe. He clutched at his chest and collapsed to the ground, his view eclipsed by shiny black plastic. “I can’t breathe,” he choked, beginning to panic. The girl hovered over him, her worried eyes framed by increasingly bright sky. She was saying something, but he couldn’t really tell what.
His ears were ringing now, and his heart was beating louder and louder. He couldn’t hear anything else. All he could see was the unbearable brightness, and the two dark pits of the girl’s eyes. He tried to claw his way up, but something was sucking him down, and he had nothing to fight it with.
“I can’t see!” It seemed as though he screamed it, but he couldn’t tell.
Then he saw nothing.
Krysta was clutching the dead boy’s body and rocking back and forth. She was a sixteen year old prostitute, sitting in a pile of trash on the side of the road. They were alike, her and the boy. This is where they belonged – garbage. Somebody’s throwaways, from a life that was better off uncluttered by their presence. “Oh God,” she muttered under her breath, over and over, like a mantra keeping her sane. “Oh God oh God oh God…”
Her words were the desperate cry of a child in the night, one who is yelling to the monsters she supposes are around her; a cry that did not expect an answer, and yet still waited for one.
“Where are you?”
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This 380 word review has not been unlocked.
Well, there’s the end of the story. I like the plot, it leads the reader where you want him to go (except for the distraction of Anna in the beginning). The characters are well-drawn if a little blocky. In this installation, I’m afraid that the characters tend to fall into stereotypes of junkies and prostitutes. I think that these characters need more than regret and victimzation to make them stand out from others of this type in literature. Your imagery is very good again in this piece, as well as your grammar and punctuation. The ancillary images—the wrapper, the wingbeats of a pigeon—set the tone nicely. I was also distracted by the outright statement that the characters were human garbage. The piece states this well enough without saying it aloud.
Here are a couple concrete suggestions—
”...all she could think to herself was, Damn. I’ve got to get a pimp.” This line runs on. It needs more Punctuation. (...all she could think to herself was, “Damn. I’ve got to get a pimp.”)
“Everything seemed excruciatingly sharp and clear to him, and still he kept playing.” This leads to a plot confusion—it seems that you describe the epiphany here (Everything seemed…clear…) but then his epiphany comes when the pain of thepoison strikes him. I find the line distracting.
Thanks for the read and keep at it. There is much in this piece that you can tease out from the story.
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