by Sam Pink
75 % of conversations in Chicago seemed to involve a whooped ass.
Or an ass that should’ve been whooped.
An ass that narrowly avoided its whooping.
An ass that wouldn’t escape its whooping.
A theoretical ass whooping.
Facts.
Enactments.
“Alright, later man,” I said. “I hope they have piña colada.”
I put my hand out.
We shook hands and locked thumbs.
“Later,” he said, snapping.
He jogged toward the 7/11 to hold the door for someone.
I walked down Fullerton.
There was an ad on the side of a bus that read, ‘Every baby will grow up to be somebody important’—showing a baby dressed as a firefighter, one dressed as a doctor, and one as a hamburger.
Actually no, I couldn’t see the third one — think it was a judge maybe.
SPIDER-MAN AND JANET AND HAPPINESS INC
The next day, I went to the alley beneath the train tracks where Spider-Man lived.
He was standing next to a wheelchair, trying on what looked like an official U.S. Air Force shirt.
“Yo!” he said, straightening the arms out on the shirt and examining the patches. “How you like it?”
“Looks good, man,” I said.
“Dahhhhhh. Shit’s fuckin badass, du. Somebody dropped it off for me last night.”
Against a brick wall behind him there were two green recycling dumpsters with a mattress between them, and a tarp pinned down to each dumpster for cover.
I heard someone moving behind it.
There was a younger overweight guy sitting on an overturned bucket against a train track column, silently drawing.
I asked Spider-Man if he wanted some beers.
“Hayo yeah, man, come on,” he said. “Come with me.” He patted the guy drawing. “Be back, man.”
The guy didn’t react at all.
On the other end of the alley there was a carwash exit, freight door open with foamy water pooling out.
We entered the carwash and walked through the big garage area where employees were hand-drying cars.
Spider-Man led me to a door inside the carwash that was the back entrance to a small liquor store where he worked.
Once a week he swept, vacuumed, and took out boxes for five King Cobra 40ozs. and five handrolled cigarettes.
“Yeah, I come over here,” he said, walking me around the 10’ x 10’ liquor store. “Sweep a little, fiss fiss, then I grab those boxes over there, vacuum the carpets, woosh woosh. Presto magnifico.”
I bought a tallboy for myself and a 40 for Spider-Man.
We went back through the carwash.
Spider-Man moved his fist and said, “A-ohhhhhhhhh” to the employees.
No one reacted.
We walked out through the big freight door and crossed the alley.
Spider-Man’s woman had taken down the tarp.
She was sitting on the bed, staring up, crosseyed.
She had a baseball hat on backwards, her thick tangled black hair coming out all sides.
She wore a Bulls T-shirt and a diaper made of garbage bags, her legs posed in front of her.
She was eating a rolled-up piece of deli turkey, slices stacked on her unshaven thigh.
“This my girl, Janet,” Spider-Man said, smiling and gesturing toward her.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said.
She said, “Um, nice a meet you too. Hi I’m juh, Janet.”
She strained when talking, breathless.
“She my girl,” Spider-Man said, opening the 40 and smiling at me.
He took a pull.
I grabbed an empty bucket and flipped it over.
I sat and opened my tallboy.
“Here man,” Spider-Man said. He went behind a dumpster and came back with a folding chair. “This shit right here, this shit is pure bamboo. Fuckatta here.”
He set up the chair, his open Air Force shirt blowing in the wind.
“Thanks,” I said, sitting down. “Oh, shit. Nice.”
“Pure, 100 percent bamboo,” he said, making an ‘ok’ sign.
Janet said, “Bum boo,” chewing turkey with her mouth open. “Hehe, shit. Dayum. Fock dat.”
A train passed over us, going towards the California stop.
It was hot out.
Sweat went down my chest into my bellybutton.
The guy who was drawing, he’d look up every once in a while and whisper something to himself, then go back to drawing.
He had a lisp like someone was pinching his lips open a little.
One time he looked up and said something and we made eye contact and he kept looking at me and eventually I said, “What?”
He leaned forward, handing me his drawings.
It was a stack of ‘To:/From:’ stickers from the post office.
He’d drawn ‘Happiness Incorporated’ on one, in bubble letters.
Another one said, ‘Peace, Love…Happiness Incorporated’ in bubble letters.
I handed the stickers back to him.
Janet said, “Um, beb, can you peez hand me uh, the uh, juice, peez. Shit. Dayum.”
Spider-Man grabbed a juicebox off the ground and put the straw to her mouth.
She took a sip. “Thuh, thank you, beb.”
Spider-Man set the juicebox in her lap.
On the front it had a picture of a neon strawberry and it read: ‘Poppin’ Strawberry!’
“Aw shit,” I said. “Poppin’ Strawberry.”
Janet bit into some rolled-up turkey.
She smiled. “Shit hehe. Dayum. Fock dat.”
Spider-Man said, “Dahhhhh, shit’s poppin!” He cleared his throat. “But nah, that’s our favorite one. There’s that one, then Rockin’ Raspberry, and something else. Right babe?”
Janet didn’t say anything, just kept chewing.
Spider-Man said, “See man? She don’t listen to me. She hate me.”
Janet said, “Hey, wuh, watch it”—pointing a roll of turkey at him, her hand shaking.
Spider-Man laughed. “Oh shit. I better hol up. She’a whoop my ass.”
Janet smiled. “Thass, ruh, right. Doe fock with me. Shit. Fock dat. I’m Puerto Rican.”
She bit into another folded piece of turkey and chewed, her mouth open.
Spider-Man and I laughed.
“She ain playin, man,” he said, leaning back on his milk crate chair, back against a dumpster. “Man, I fucked up one time, she ran my ass over with that wheelchair.”
I looked at her wheelchair, parked next to him.
It had a huge battery and controls on the armrest.
Spider-Man said, “That shit’s heavy, du! She ran over my foot, right over the bones. Hurt like a motherfucker. Member babe?”
Janet nodded, chewing with her mouth open. “Shit. Fock dat.”
“But, ey,” he said. “That’s my girl. I love her. She my doll. You need me, right babe? I help you. Brush your hair. Clean you. I help you.”
“Um, jes,” she said. “Thank you, beb. Shit. Hehe.”
“Man we been together 15 years,” Spider-Man said. He leaned back and took a pull off his 40, maintaining eye contact with me. He raised his eyebrows up and down. “15 years, bro! I love her. She gave me my youngest daughter, Yanita.”
“How old is she?” I said.
“She 12, but she’a whoop that ass, bro.” He laughed. “Wooo. She mean! She with the grandma now but man, she my heart. I love her.”
“I’m Puerto Rican,” Janet said, pointing to herself with a roll of turkey. “Shit. Dayum.”
“Yeah, Janita whoop that ass, man,” Spider-Man said. “She in karate. Plus she Puerto Rican. Plus dude, I’m Black/Irish/American-Indian and British.” Then in a deep, booming burp, he said, “Nang!”
Everybody laughed, even the Happiness Inc. guy, who looked up and said something I couldn’t hear.
I took a pull off my tallboy.
S
pider-Man told me about how he used to get government money for taking care of Janet and how he will again once he gets his state ID renewed.
Also, once he got any kind of picture ID, he could sleep over at Janet’s assisted living apartment.
Janet had a full apartment — shower and everything — but she slept out here in the alley with him because he couldn’t get in without an ID.
“Shit, but ey,” he said. “She my baby. She even let me bring other women home sometimes, man.” He stood up and started pacing. “Hayo yeah, man. We eat other females alive. Like a porno here. Got one lickin the other’s pussy while I do one from behind. Takin pictures on my cellphone and shit, what!?”
Janet finished some turkey and wiped her fingers off on her garbage bag diaper.
“Muh, member, how I was when I get um, mad at you, beb,” she said, her hands up by her chest, shaking.
Spider-Man laughed and clapped his hands together. “Man, any time I bring another bitch back here, I always gotta make sure I do Janet first. Otherwise she’a kill me. She’a whoop my ass!”
Janet was smiling, staring up in different directions.
Spider-Man said, “She’a whoop my ass bro, come on!”
I laughed, feeling happy to be alive for three seconds.
Janet said, “Ey, um, beb, can you peez help me so I can go to the poath office peez?”
Spider-Man helped her into her wheelchair.
Her diaper made a swishing sound when she sat.
He took off her hat, straightened her hair, and put the hat back on.
She pointed at her lips.
Spider-Man kissed her.
She pointed down towards her crotch and said, “Gimme, a, a double. Hehe, shit.”
Spider-Man looked at me and made a face. “You gotta be kiddin me!”
Janet laughed. “Shit. Bye, bebby.”
She drove off in her wheelchair — out of the alley and onto the sidewalk — going towards the post office with a cup in her lap.
Spider-Man said, “Oh shit, look at this shit, man.”
He took out a cellphone from his pocket and started scrolling.
He licked snot off his nose.
“Hol on, hol on,” he said, moving his thumb sideways.
I took another pull off my tallboy.
“Bam, there it is,” he said. “Nang!”
He came over and showed me his cellphone screen.
“Your phone is nicer than mine,” I said.
“Check it out. I chat with this bitch like every week on the internet.”
He showed me a picture of a woman with insanely big tits.
“They’re double Z’s,” he said, wiping his nose. “Biggest in the world, man, gah be kiddin me. They’re filled with air, bro. I talk to her once a week online. She from Vegas.”
He scrolled through women, a big white loop of snot hanging from his nose and lip.
There were women with names like: BB Guns, Tiffany Towers, Pandora Peaks.
“Man, I saw Pandora Peaks at a bar,” Spider-Man said, shaking his head. “I’m in Vegas. I’m at the bar. I turn around. She’s coming up to the bar for a drink. I said, ‘You’rrrre Pandora Peaks right?’ She like, ‘Uh yep!’ Man, she hugged me, and I’s pressed up against her. Man, I fell to my knees.”
“Shit,” I said. “Fuckin bananas.”
He laughed. “Fell to my knees bro,” he said, holding up his hand.
“What does she do? Is she a stripper?”
“Nah, she just hangs out at bars, makes appearances, has a website. Some of the girls do porn. Tiffany Towers does porn, but she just sucks cock and eats pussy.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah,” he said, “No uh, no intercourse.”
“This chair is comfortable. What is this, bamboo?”
“Dahhhhhhhh. Fuckatta here.”
Then this guy walked up from the other end of the alley.
He was wearing baggy jean shorts, a college football jersey, and a backwards baseball hat.
He had a long chin-beard.
Spider-Man said, “Ey, whattup DJ.”
“Whattup whattup,” DJ said.
He slapped hands with Spider-Man then me.
He sat on a parking block and took out a straightedge razor.
“Good morning to everyone,” he said, touching the blade with his thumb. “Just woke up. Fucking slept at the park. How’s everyone doing?”
He started shaving his cheeks a little, pinching the blade on either side to wipe off hair.
He shaved parts of his face, arms, and legs while we sat there drinking.
Any time a train would go over us, DJ would look up and point one or both of his middle fingers at the tracks.
He told me about how he worked at a church nearby, making temporary IDs for people.
“Oh yeah,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He took out his wallet and handed some temporary IDs to Spider-Man. “There you go, girl.”
Spider-Man checked them. “Dahhhhhhh, ey good-lookin!” he said, passing me one.
It had a black and white picture of his head.
It said, ‘Janiya D— Jr.’
He put the IDs in his pocket. “Man, when I went to get these shits made, I fuckin walk in and they playin a movie in the sitting area. And what movie was it they playin? Spider-Man. Wooooo!”
DJ folded up his wallet and put it in his pocket. “Hell yeah, man.”
Spider-Man said, “Man. I always cry watching that motherfucker. Always.”
“At the end or something?” DJ said, wiping hair off his blade.
“At the whole thing!” Spider-Man said. “Hayo yeah, man.”
He went over almost the entire storyline of the movie, using the sound effect ‘Zshoo’ a lot.
He was running all over the alley, getting exploded out of things.
The Happiness Inc. guy stood up and untucked his T-shirt from beneath his breasts, holding his stickers in the other hand.
His body odor was worse than mine in a way that made me want to worship him.
“You gonna put those up, man?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, looking at the stickers. “If there’s anywhere fuggin dumb-ath Weed Wolf didn’t yet. Jeez.”
Weed Wolf was a guy who wrote ‘Weed Wolf’ on post office stickers then put them up everywhere.
“Man,” DJ said, holding his razor out. “If I ever see Weed Wolf”—he held the blade a few inches from his face, moved it around over his eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks—“I got a buck fifty for em. Hundred fifty stitches to the face.”
He smiled at me.
Spider-Man said, “Dahhh, plastic surgery, bro. Wha’s really goin on!?”
“Hell yeah,” DJ said. “Buck fifty for the bitches.”
Spider-Man talked about this biker gang a mile west and how they cut an X onto a dude’s face if the dude was a pedophile or rapist or possibly neither.
A drop of water fell from the train tracks and put out his cigarette.
Perfect shot.
He checked the cigarette, put it behind his ear.
“But nah, them biker dude’s baaaaaad motherfuckers, man. Gah be kiddin me. They don’t use guns. They use knives, bricks, bats, tire irons, crow bars, wrenches. Don’t fuck with them. That’s nuts. Fuckin bananas.”
DJ said, “Yeah, if you’re a Chester the Molester, them dudes will fuck up your life. You’re done.”
He told a vague story occurring a few years earlier where a body was found in the area, throat cut open and stuffed with a severed dick.
Then he paused, took a deep breath, and pinched hair off his razor. “Ok, I have to go to work.”
He pocketed his blade and walked away under the train tracks.
A train passed overhead and he held up both middle fingers.
Spider-Man and I finished our beers.
He looked down at his Air Force shirt and said, “Hayo yeah.”
He showed me the other clothes in the bag — getting out each shirt to ho
ld it up against himself then turn his head to the side and angle it up, blinking twice.
I referred to each shirt as, “Marvelous,” “Fantastic,” or “Exquisite.”
And they were.
RED JELLY
I saw Janet out front of the post office today.
She had a cup in her lap, collecting money.
I asked her if she wanted something to eat.
She said, “Um, jes, peez.”
“What do you want?”
“Um, anything is ok peez.”
“What do you want? I’ll go get it.”
“Um, I think, so-thing sweet.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Um, gum?”
“Gum?”
“Jes peez.”
“What about food?”
She smiled and started laughing.
Her head bobbed up and down from a slouched position.
“Ok, um, a burrito peez,” she said.
I went down the block and bought her a burrito.
I dropped it off with her and offered to push her back to the alley but she said she’d be there later.
In the alley, Spider-Man was sitting on an overturned bucket and drinking a tallboy of coconut-flavored malt liquor.
He took out a pack of Dark Horse brand cigarettes and lit the last one.
I got out the bamboo chair and sat in it and told him it only felt like 80 % bamboo.
“What, fuckatta here,” he said, ashing into his empty pack.
He gave me a brief price history of Dark Horse cigarettes, including various places to buy them, the cheapest of which was at the California Blue Line stop — which then segued into a story about when he got arrested there.
“Man,” he said. “Du, I’s fucked up. I’s dressing like Spider-Man and riding on top of the train. I thought I’s Spider-Man. The Spider-Man.”
“What?”
“Gah be kiddin me bro!” he said, smiling. He listed on his fingers. “I wore the white shoes, blue sweatpants, red tanktop, and a Spider-Man mask. From the Damen stop to the California stop. What!?”
I was laughing. “How did you not die?”
“Nah it’s easy bro,” he said. “You go in between cars and grab the handle and hop up — bwoop — gotta be kiddin me. You have to lay down though. And get off before that shit go underground. But nah man, that shit was awesome. I’d get myself a beer, leave it behind a bench, then ride on top of the train a couple stops, get off, grab another beer. Shit man, I’d slap hands with little kids at stops and whatnot. They thought I’s Spider-Man.” He ashed his cigarette. “But yeah, one time when I got off the cops were there and they arrested me and locked me up in the hospital, haha.”
