The First Time
September 11, 2018
Gown & Gavel
House Shiraz
The first time was the hardest. It’s easy now. I do it so often, I don’t even think about it that much. I mean, I think about what I might find and what I can get for it, but I don’t give a fuck anymore, what people think when they see me. I just say fuck it and lift the lid or shake the cup or hold the sign.
Yeah, I’m a dirtbag with a bag full of stuff. Yeah, I’m gripped onto my shitty, dirty Timmy’s cup, waggling it at your window or your face; I’m digging through the blue bins at your building, looking for empties or maybe something someone threw out that I might pawn for a buck or two. I’m changing my clothes behind your dumpster, back to the corner where I can feel as safe as I can-which isn’t very, really. I’m taking as good care as I can, of the few things I have that help me build my mask. A wig. A mascarra that I stole. A shirt that makes me feel a little bit pretty, a little like I used to be, but still mostly hides my track marks.
The fist time.
The first hit.
The first missed shift.
The first missed rent.
The first time, indeed.
The first furtive, guarded peek into the bin; the abyss.
The first tentative reach toward the returnable empty, the McDonald’s cup with a sticker still on it, the first tossed-out smoke that still has six or seven drags left on it.
Yeah, there’s a history behind the worn-out piece of card board, Sharpie letters unevenly seeking…seeking. Fuck man, seeking what?
I want; I just want.
I want money
I want my hit.
Mostly that, my hit is what I want.
No. All that other shit? I want it, yeah, but my hit. My bump, my shot, my snort, my fix. That fucking cunt of a mistress; I need that bitch.
I have no pride, I have no shame.
I can’t see your face. I only see that you’re there and that you just might cough up a quarter or a buck or five if I baffle you with enough bullshit or blind you with the right amount of pathetic.
I’l tell you any story; some are true, some aren’t. I’ll make it up or I’ll dig it up or I’ll give it up-whatever works.
I want.
I need.
I don’t have.
I did though, once.
This gig’s way harder than a straight job, but I can’t keep one anymore, so throw some fuckin change in my cup and don’t give me that fuckin look.
I didn’t just pop out of the ground like this, like some fucking dandelion; I got pathology, Motherfucker. Under all this Salvation Army clothing, under all this street dirt, under all these bags of crap I carry around, there’s me.
I was born.
I had a good life. Or a shitty life, whatever.
Real or imagined, I found my demons and started running from them and I just haven’t stopped yet.
The first time.
I think about it all the time. No. That’s bullshit.I don’t think about much except that hit, staying safe, not getting beat up or raped. I think about that. I think about how I can separate you from your money. That hit, that hit that hit; I think about that.
If you think you know me, you’re wrong. You’re wrong because you’re on your way to work. Or the gym. Or dinner with your next swipe right.
You are not on your way to the other side of the street, to peek into a recently-curbed blue bin to see if there are a few craft beer empties or a mostly finished bottle of pinot grigio.
But I am.
I do this all day, every day.
Ever since the first time.
Pint-Sized Stories 