by Sam Pink
Then he gave a brief storyline of one of his characters, which he told with a lot of sound effects.
It involved a dead father and something with ice.
There were other storylines too.
Most of them involved a dead father/wife.
Genetic accidents.
Something with ice.
He posed as the characters while narrating.
At one point he got annoyed when he thought people weren’t listening.
From the doorway, Danny yelled, “Then just tell the fuckin story then, the quick version. Come on.”
Everybody laughed.
Spider-Man continued to talk about the comic book characters he’d created.
He posed as the fighters and did their moves, pausing for people who walked by, bowing to them as they passed.
He jumped back into fighting position and said, “Shing-shing”—shooting some ice at me.
I dodged as best I could, drinking my beer.
Spider-Man moved strands of the sparkling wig away from his face. “Gotta be kiddin me, my beautiful hair. Dahhhhhh.”
This guy ‘Face’ walked up.
Everybody said hi to him.
He was Spider-Man’s friend.
He wore a Sox hat to the left a little, braids coming out beneath it.
There was a long scar on his cheek/jaw.
“Whattup, cous,” he said, hitting fists with me when I handed him a beer.
More and more people were passing on the sidewalk.
The bars were closing.
Face said he had to go soon to clean up afterhours at a nearby bar called the Two Door.
This professional/jock type guy walked up and started talking to Duke’s owner.
They knew each other.
The jock guy handed him his cellphone.
Duke’s owner took out his cellphone and held both phones next to each other, transferring a number.
He sat there moving his head back and forth between both phones, dialing with his burnt fingertips.
“Wha’d you want again?” he said, squinting up at the jock guy.
“Some weed, shit, some coke, whatever,” he said. “We can all blow a line right here, I don’t give a fuck.”
He looked at me for a second and then looked back down at the dog-owner guy.
Nothing.
“Nothing,” said the dog-owner guy. “Should I try again, er?”
The jock guy grabbed his phone and walked off.
His sandals slapped against the sidewalk.
I ran across the street and pissed in an alley.
When I came back there was an argument between Danny and Spider-Man about who could ask for money where.
Territories.
Rules.
Power.
Friends or no friends.
Danny kept telling Spider-Man to fuck off because he was asking for money by his spot.
Spider-Man kept telling Danny to relax.
An ad on Danny’s radio mentioned the Somethingth Anniversary of 9/11.
Everyone talked about how they would have attacked the terrorists if they were on those planes.
Danny said, “Man, fuck it, you know. Wha’d they have? Fuckin box cutters? A fucking box cutter? Helllllllll”—tongue through his missing teeth—“lll no. I mean, yeah, you cut me once, sure. But then I fuckin kill your ass, haha. Fuckin stomp your face in, bitch.”
Too Tall took off his wig and rubbed his head. “Mm-hm. Can’t stop me with jussa box cutter.”
Face put his cigarette in his mouth and held both his fists clenched down at his sides, squinting around the smoke. “Bitch-ass motherfuckers, come on,” he said, acting like he wanted to fight Spider-Man.
Spider-Man said, “Gah be kiddin me, come on.” He walked over to a parking meter and fought it. “Boosh boosh. Pwah. Shing.”
He told a dramatic story about 9/11, how on the plane the passengers downed, this guy called up his wife and said goodbye before helping to attack the terrorists.
Spider-Man kept dramatically reciting one part, posing as the guy and his wife.
“‘Baby, baby no, I have to go,’ he says to his girl. And his girl, she say, ‘Baby please no.’ But he says, ‘Baby I love you — I have to go.’”
I kept thinking about some of his comic book characters.
Wanted to be able to think of something flawed about their storyline/superpower, that way I could hurt his feelings.
But I couldn’t think of anything.
His characters were too good.
Too damn good!
Spider-Man stopped the 9/11 story, yelling, “Stop, come on, gah be kiddin me,” as Danny pretended to shoot ice at him.
“Shing shing that, motherfucker,” Danny said.
He laughed and grabbed the tallboy can of watermelon-flavored malt liquor near his feet.
“Shing, shing,” Face said, shooting ice at Spider-Man.
Everyone was laughing.
Spider-Man walked off, pissed, gone.
“Good,” Danny said. “Fuck that whiner.”
Everyone else agreed.
And it became clear to me they weren’t all friends.
And that nobody was ever friends.
And that yes, fuck that whiner.
We finished up the case of beer.
Duke stretched a little, started to get up.
It took Duke a long time to get up, and when he did, he walked bow-legged and limped.
The owner took him over to a nearby square of dirt where there’d been a tree.
“He got arthritis,” said the owner, watching Duke spray dark piss into the dirt and over the sidewalk.
Will the treats help?
Shit, I hope they help.
Yes.
They will.
They will cure him!
They will melt in his mouth and travel down into him, out into his limbs and joints, yelling, “Ey, arthritis, fuckatta here! Told you!”
And Duke will vomit out the defeated arthritis as a green mist, or whatever, and be healthy again.
Healthy and strong Duke.
Large enough to drown Chicago in his dark piss.
Duke, I love you, enjoy the treats, have a nice night.
Mmmm-wha!
I put the plastic bag full of crushed cans into the empty beer case and said bye to everyone and threw the empty beers into a dumpster and went home and slept and I didn’t have any dreams.
PIÑA COLADA
The next couple of times I passed by Danny’s spot he wasn’t there.
Just his plastic cups, his blanket, and some newspaper.
No Danny.
After a couple weeks, the doorway was boarded up.
I didn’t find out what happened until I saw Spider-Man one afternoon, singing loudly and crossing the street towards 7/11.
I ran to join him right as the ‘Walk’ signal turned.
“Ey, you’re Danny’s friend,” I said. “We hung out a while ago. The wig night.”
He looked at me for a second then smiled. “Dahhhh, wha’s good, man?”
He held out his hand.
We shook, locked thumbs.
“No I mean, wha’s really good, man?” he said. “Gah be kiddin me, woo!”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Nice to see you again.”
He had on a Spider-Man baseball hat, tipped back on his head, sweat coming down from his thinning white hair.
T-shirt with a cartoon mouse dressed like Elvis.
Pajama pants with the Bears logo all over them.
Dress shoes.
We stood on the corner out front of the 7/11.
“Where’s Danny?” I said. “His place is boarded up.”
“You didn’t hear, man? Danny got hit by a car, bro. Gah be kiddin me! He got hit by a drunk driver when he’s crossing right over there”—pointing at the street that was part of the intersection we’d just crossed. “Motherfucker goes right through the redlight, boosh”—slapping his hands together and slidin
g them different ways.
“Oh shit.”
Spider-Man laughed and said, “Oh shit is right.” He backed up a few steps and punched through the air and said, “Fwoosh, ran right into him, man. See that bus stop?” He got really close to me and pointed towards a bus stop a little bit down the block. “He got knocked all the way over to that bus stop. Kiddin me? Shit, thassa a hundred feet bro! Gah be nuts. Fuckin bananas. Bananas and nuts, du.”
I looked down the block to where Spider-Man was pointing.
Fwooosh.
“Man,” I said.
“Yeah, du.”
“So where is he? Is he alive?”
“Oh, he with his dad now, up in Arlington Heights. Him and the stepmom. They got money, bro! His dad’s uh, um, a retired engineer. Plus, they fuckin suing everybody, man. Gah be nuts. The driver, the police, everybody man.”
He backed up, his fists out to his sides as he looked up at the sky, acting out something, grimacing.
“They suing everybody,” he yelled, “Naaaaaaaaang!”
I was laughing.
He came closer again and wiped sweat off his forehead. “He got a compressed spine, bro! You kiddin me! Nah, but he’s doing ok. His dad don’t let him drink now. Locked the motherfuckin booze in the basement with a padlock.”
I imagined Danny trying to bite through the padlock for some reason — gnawing on it, then snapping his fingers and saying, “Ah rats.”
“Man, lotta accidents happen at this stop right here though,” Spider-Man said. “Shit, like, two years ago, I’s drinkin a beer over there.” He pointed across the street at a bus stop down the block. “Sitting right there, had my beer, ok. Then, fuckin boooosh, fuckin four cars smash into each other, right there man, at the intersection. Gah be nuts. I’m drinkin a beer, and motherfuckers”—he hit his fists together and said, “Coooooooooorrrsh.” He backed up, spreading his arms out like he was exploding out of something in slow-motion. “Fuckin bananas. One car goes fuckin airborne, du!” He pointed at the stoplight. “See that bitch right there? It was that high, bro. Shit spun over upside down and the other cars smashed into buildings, people thrown out all over. Fucking blood, guts. I got up from the bench, I’s like, naaang. This one bitch, she layin there”—pointed to the street—“layin in the gutter, like”—he straightened up with his hands tightly at his sides and his eyes closed then shook his head side to side while vibrating his lips, making an engine/speedboat sound.
“Oh shit,” I said.
“Ok?” he said, laughing. He slapped one hand into the other, raised his eyebrows. “Bro, then I found a arm in the street! What!? This one du lossa arm! Gah be nuts! Bananas. Fuckin walnuts, man. Kiddin me?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
He folded one arm beneath the other, rubbing his chin with the other hand, still shaking his head side to side like, Here we go again!
“And I’s just out by the bus stop, drinking my beer,” he said, shrugging. “Shit, I’m always first on the scene.” He came up to me and showed me a Spider-Man ring on his left ring finger then pointed at his hat. “Spidey’s allllllllways first on the scene, bro. Man, I thought to myself, ‘Why’s it always me. Why.’”
“It’s because you’re always hanging out,” I said.
“Bro, I ran out into the street, see du’s arm, fwoosh, I run to the 7/11, run straight the fuck in, go to the back. See that?” He turned me a little by the shoulders and pointed through the 7/11 windows at the ice coolers. “I grab a motherfuckin bag from there, run out without paying, straight out into the fuckin street. Crack the bag open, pour some out, grab du’s arm”—he laughed a little—“grab the fuckin arm and tossed it into the bag, shook that shit up, chirsh chirsh.”
I was smiling. “Oh shit, man. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Dahhhhhhhhhh,” he said smiling, raising his eyebrows up and down.
Then he did some kind of strut where he carefully lifted and set his feet while pointing downward.
“Did it save his arm?” I said.
“Nah, I don’t know. I never seenem again, gah be kiddin me. Fuckin bananas.” He calmed down, blinking a little to clear his watering eyes. “Woo. But yeah.”
“What if it saved his arm and he always wonders who did it?”
Spider-Man looked at me for a couple seconds.
Maintaining eye contact, he knelt and covered the lower half of his face with his forearm.
In a weird, extra-gravelly voice, he said, “It is what I must do for my city.”
“Hell yeah,” I said.
He stared at me over his forearm, breathing heavily like, “Sersh…sersh…sersh.”
Then he stood and smiled.
“You should’ve grabbed chips and candy too when you got the ice,” I said.
But he didn’t hear me.
He was adjusting the brim of his hat, making a face.
“Shit man, then I’s in the middle of the street directing traffic! Fuckin blood and glass all over. Dahhh. Shit. I got du’s arm in a bag and I’m directing traffic. You serious?” He came up to me and hit my arm. “When the cops finally got there, the one officer’s like, ‘Thanks, Spidey.’” He hit me again and started laughing. “Waaaayyyooohhh. Wha’s really going on?”
We both laughed.
A girl walked up to the corner, waiting for the ‘Walk’ signal.
She had on headphones.
Spider-Man looked at her from bottom to top — holding his one elbow, scratching his beard a little.
He tapped her arm with the back of his hand.
“And how are you doing today?” he said, in an overly polite tone.
She took off one of her headphones and said, “What?”—her eyebrows raised.
Same tone, he said, “And how are you doing today?”
“Fine.”
“How’s your day going?”
She went to put her headphone back on but stopped. “Fine.”
“Well it’s supposed to be perfect.”
“What?”
He started to say the same thing but she smiled halfway through, put her headphone back on, and walked across the street.
Spider-Man watched her.
“Nang!” he said. “She got a ass!”
He started doing a weird strut again.
A motorcycle sped down the street.
Spider-Man watched it.
“Wooooo,” he said. “Thassa bad-ass bike, bro! See how that shit was chopped-out? Nang.”
He told me about a comic book character he liked who had a magical motorcycle.
If you mentioned something comic book related, he’d tell you as much as he knew about that character and also jump into the plot of the movie and start acting it out.
“Shit man,” Spider-Man said. “[Character] is a bad motherfucker, gah be kiddin me! Du’s skin is made of liquid metal. LIQUID METAL, BRO! Come on!” He made a motorcycle revving motion with his hand. “Gagga gagga, vooosh. He hop on that bike, shit, his skull burst inna flames, furrshhhh. Fuckin nuts.”
“Nah, he’s a pussy,” I said, for no reason, knowing nothing about the character.
Spider-Man laughed. “Dahhhhh. Liquid metal, bro! The fuck!?”
I said, “So what does that mean. Is it like—”
“Bro, that shit is liquid, metal. Fuck a bullet, fuck a knife. Gah be kidding me. Plus his motorcycle goes 700 miles an hour, du. Seven. Hundred. Fucking. Miles an hour, man. Peel that fucking pavement, man. Leave that shit melted. Bike goes so fast, you go up the side of a building.” He pointed down the street to where the Sears Tower was visible. “Go up the fucking Sears Tower, no problem. Jump off the top of that bitch and land in the street, fwoooosh, fucking zoom by, flip over all the cars, smash out all the windows. Oooooosh.”
He mimed being exploded backwards out of something, a pained looked on his face.
Then he made a motion like he was taking out a whip, whipping me with the sound effect ‘Tish.’
“Du’s got a fucking c
hain-whip too, man,” he said. “Fucking rip your head off, son. Tish.”
“Oh fuck no,” I said.
“Oh fuck yeah, du,” he said, turning and whipping something else. “Tish.”
“What if my skin is made of liquid metal too?” I said.
“Fuckin nuts, bro,” he said, lighting a handrolled cigarette. “Fuckatta here.”
He talked about an upcoming movie where multiple superheroes were going to be fighting together.
He listed them, doing a pose for each.
“[Character],” he said, then stood straight up and crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Shing, shing.”
Then he said, “[Character]” and flexed in a really dramatic way and said, “Byahhhhh.”
Then he said, “[Character]” and acted like he was holding a powerful orb of energy between his curled hands, and said, “Nyah ha haaaaaa.”
I said, “Hell yeah, man. Can’t fuck with that”—even though I wasn’t sure you couldn’t fuck with that.
Somebody could probably fuck with that.
Spider-Man stopped and narrowed his eyes at me and listed all the superheroes again, louder but somehow more calm too.
He didn’t think I’d truly understood what grouping those superheroes together meant.
And it bothered him.
“Fuck,” I said. Then I did a shrug, making a face I’d never made. “They don’t have a weakness.”
“No weaknesses,” he said, smiling. “Dahhhhhh. Fuckatta here.”
He backed up and performed a move.
“Fuck with us,” he said. “Try it. Go on.”
He did an elaborate jumpkick move, landing by someone trying to get past on the sidewalk.
He bowed — remained bowed — using both arms to usher the person onward.
“So, what are you doing today then?” I said.
He straightened up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing. “Uh, nothing man, just went out to get some piña colada to drink with my woman.”
He told me they lived a block away, in an alley underneath the Blue Line tracks.
“If I can’t get piña colada I’ll get margarita, fuck it,” he said, looking toward the store. “I better go see what they got though. My girl gonna beat my ass. I been gone so long haha. You know what I’m sayin, naaaaang. When I get back, she’a whoop my ass!” He laughed while making a face that could also be used during a guitar solo. “She’a whoop my ass.”
