Hummingbird

by Jude Angelini

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she says, “Hey Jude, it’s late. I better go.”

  She hangs up.

  I text her. If she ever needs anything, I got her. As soon as I send it, I regret it. So I hit her right back, “Never mind, I’ma leave you alone. Let you live your life.”

  She doesn’t reply. Now I’m thinking, Did that come out the wrong way?

  I start texting her another paragraph about how I meant the last text to mean that she should have good luck with her guy and her life and I’m happy for her.

  I’m about to send this one off when I stop.

  “You bitch,” I say.

  This is embarrassing. I erase it. I erase her texts. I erase her number. I try to forget it.

  “She don’t want you no more, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

  I turn on a light and sit with that.

  Me and my fairy tales.

  She don’t want you no more.

  And this one hurts a lot, but not as bad as last time.

  monster

  I dress up like Jeffrey Dahmer for Halloween, but most people just think I’m a pedophile.

  I’m walking down the boulevard with Taz, Zee, Toni, and Ross. Ross is the black Marty McFly, Toni’s Amy Winehouse. Taz and Zee don’t dress up but chicks still think Zee’s Charles Manson.

  It’s a real shitshow in Santa Monica. We’re eating hot dogs, looking at costumes. Everyone’s wasted.

  Some dyke pirate’s sloppy drunk, crotch out on the concrete next to us. Her girls are trying to help her. They’re all in our space. So we give ’em our table and offer them water.

  They take it and don’t thank us.

  Tazzy smiles and says, “You’re welcome.”

  The tranny looks up and notices their faux pas and goes, “Oh…thanks.”

  I force a smile. “Yeah, we’re all in it together.”

  And they’re back on their phones texting.

  This ain’t my first Halloween parade. It’ll probably be my last. I remember the costumes being better.

  It’s getting late. Let’s go home.

  Ross drops me at the crib and I start doing rails of K.

  I got chicks hitting me up to hang. I’m tunnel-vision muscling my way through the texts. I got a little Jewish girl s’posed to come over after the bar. I better try and sober up, but first lemme finish these lines.

  At 1:30 a.m. the webcam girl hits me for a threesome. I cancel the Jew and eat two Viagras.

  Half-hour later, I text Webcam, “Where you at?”

  She’s drunk. She doesn’t know. She’s at a party.

  I say, “Still?”

  I tell her screenshot the map.

  She does. She’s in Brentwood. In the hills. At least forty minutes out.

  She’s not coming.

  I text her, “Great. You fuckin’ asshole. You cock-blocked me from twenty miles away.”

  I try and uncancel the Jewish chick but it’s too late, it’s going straight to voicemail. I jerk off but I’m too high to nut, so I go to bed at four with a raging hard-on.

  I wake up at seven, drink GHB, and go antiquing. It’s slim pickings. All I find are a couple records: Brian Eno and Smokey Robinson. It’s getting hot, so I go.

  By eleven I’m at my boy’s watching football and snorting ketamine. Sports are a waste on K. Just a bunch of dudes running around for nothing; pointing their fingers to God.

  I sober up long enough to have dinner with the twenty-two-year-old vegan.

  She’s telling me about going to USC. Now they got these things called trigger warnings at her school. Like if you’re about to show some shit with violence or rape in it, you gotta warn ’em ahead of time, so it doesn’t trigger bad feelings or they’ll freak out and get traumatized.

  I say, “They do this for grown-ups?”

  She says, “Yeah.”

  “They war vets or some shit?”

  She says, “No.”

  I’m shaking my head. It’s come to this? These are my future bosses.

  No trigger warnings in life, just sharp corners. Shit happens then you deal with it.

  I liked it better when we were cowboys and Vikings, taking people’s shit. Now we’re allergic to peanuts and a piece of bread’ll kill ya.

  I send her home; I’ve heard enough for the night.

  Let’s do some more ketamine.

  I do more. I’m in a K-hole. I’m paranoid. I’m thinking, I’m really Jeffrey Dahmer, I’m thinking, I’m dead. Man, I could use some pussy. I’m arguing with myself. These clothes feel weird.

  I come to an hour later, holding my phone, butt-naked with a sweater on. My dick’s flaccid, my top’s turquoise.

  I’m embarrassed. I look down at my phone. Did I post this on the Internet? Did I send the vegan a dick pic?

  I hope not, I was trying to be her mentor.

  I need some pussy though. I’m on Backpage jerking off with coconut oil, looking for a hooker. I try to make an appointment but when she answers, I’m too high to form words.

  I get a text from a woman I used to see. She’s actually a grown-up with a career. I tried to date her but she wanted commitment without intimacy and I ain’t know how to do that. Now we just fuck once in a while.

  She wants to visit and I wanna eat her up. I tell her come over, the door’s unlocked. Let yourself in.

  I make a playlist.

  She shows up a half-hour later. I go down on her to “Munchies For Your Love.” It’s fitting. We fuck until she’s sore. We lay in bed and talk. It’s nice, these quiet moments.

  She wants to stay. I don’t let her.

  I send her home and my face is back in the plate.

  I’m spun. I’m exhausted but I gotta keep going. There’s more to do.

  I remember going to a psychic for work a few years back.

  She asks me what I wanna know.

  I tell her, “Keep it light.”

  She starts off, “You’re a writer.”

  I say, “Yeah, I am.”

  She says, “You got mental illness in your family.”

  I say, “Who doesn’t?”

  She says, “This is weird but just go with it.”

  I say, “Okay.”

  She says, “You have a demon stalking you. He’s here with you right now, laughing.”

  I say, “Hell nah! A demon?”

  She says, “Yes,” and starts describing textbook examples of depression.

  Then she says, “Someone in your family did something very evil to let these dark forces around you.”

  I tell her, “That’s just depression. It runs on my pop’s side.”

  She says, “It’s a demon. What’d your father do?”

  I’m looking at her like, You’re the psychic one, you tell me.

  I say, “Nothing.”

  She’s shaking her head, “Hrmmm.”

  She doesn’t believe me.

  I get up to go. She gives me her card. She says she can fix me for more money. She says she does phoners.

  I throw it in the trash.

  I’m talking myself down. “It’s just depression. I’m just depressed.”

  That’s all it is, I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Gabby used to call it “my moods.” Julie didn’t call it anything, she just hated it.

  I’d try to explain it to her. She ain’t get it.

  She’d say, “Why can’t you just be happy? Why not choose happy?”

  I’d say, “You think I chose this shit?” I tell her, “It’s like I got a black stain on my heart and no matter how hard I scrub it, it’s still there. And no matter how happy I am, it’s gonna be there waiting for me when the joy goes away.”

  She’d just sip her wine and look at me like I was pathetic. And I’d stare back. Then she’d shake her head and we
’d change the subject.

  They say exercise helps with that shit, maybe I shoulda jogged more.

  Now she’s long gone and I’m blowing rails without her.

  Nights like these, I think about what that psychic said. I think about that demon on my back with a riding crop. Whipping me. Driving me to finish that plate.

  We all got demons. This one is mine.

  I finally get to bed at four and wake up in the morning with a herpe on my lip.

  Goddamn it, I went so hard I had a fucking outbreak.

  These fucking herpes, I call ’em “Face AIDS.” I got ’em from my aunt when I was nine and she kissed me goodbye with a cold sore on her mouth.

  They come out when I’m stressed. I get ’em in my eyes too. They’re my little reminder that no one can hurt you quite like your family.

  I cancel all my dates for the week.

  This ketamine’ll keep me company. I drag ass through work then come home and do K. I do it till I’m sick and I’m puking and my brain’s floating outside of my head.

  I’m on the couch, burnt, thinking maybe I should chill. I wash the rest of the gram down the sink.

  I reach out to my friends. I’ll hang out with my friends instead.

  I take G walks and have dinner. It’s fine.

  I’m off the K and the insomnia sets in. I’m spaced out during the day. I’m wired at night. I don’t know how long I can do this for.

  Five days off, I hit an art show in an attempt to be human. I even put on a tie.

  I get there, it’s a real scene. Everyone’s pretty. They’re all wearing the right clothes.

  I’m solo. I try to mingle but feel disconnected and cats keep coming up with reasons to leave. I’m left there next to a picture, holding my water. I pivot.

  I talk to women my age, they’re all married and their husbands are there and they grab their wrists and lead them away.

  Man, them dudes are tripping. It’s just small talk, that’s all it is.

  But is it? I haven’t touched a chick in a week. It’s wearing on me. I haven’t felt this needy in a while. I bet they can smell it.

  Maybe I missed my window. Everyone’s coupled up here. I’m the old guy at the bar, still single. A lecherous old man, hitting on women with a herpe on his lip. I used to laugh at that dude.

  I’m on the sidewalk in a group; they’re smoking weed. I end up standing next to some Filipino chick wearing blue contacts and a poncho. She looks like an alien but I talk to her anyway.

  We’re all in it together.

  She tells me she’s getting her doctorate in management at the University of Phoenix. That’s the same one they have commercials for during People’s Court.

  I’m genuinely surprised. I say, “No shit? They got PhDs for managers?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yup, they sure do.”

  I say, “All my managers ever do is pass the buck.”

  She forces a “Ha.”

  I smile. I say, “Maybe they wouldn’t if they had PhDs.”

  Now she’s looking around for someone better to talk to.

  I think she’s into black guys.

  I might be wrong, but she’s got a way about her that feels like she’d blow a dude to a Mos Def album. She gives me her back and starts talking to a black dude wearing a cape.

  I’m left there thinking, I just got dissed by a bitch who goes to Internet college.

  I crack a smile. It’s probably time to go home.

  I call a car. I go home. I make an egg sandwich and eat it over the sink.

  I dig through my cabinet; I know it’s here somewhere. Then I find it, sitting behind the vitamin B: my last bag of ketamine.

  rocky ii

  We ain’t have shit to do that day. Just like every other day. We’re sitting around Boo’s eating microwaved hot dogs in folded-up white bread, watching TV on the black-and-white, switching between basketball and karate flicks, turning the channel with some pliers.

  The phone rings. Boo tells me to be quiet, it might be his dad. It’s not. It’s Quan. He says to come outside in ten minutes.

  We watch Bruce Lee till the commercial break then go sit on the porch.

  Quan rolls up a half-hour later in an ’82 Bonneville, bass bumping.

  This is impressive. Quan might look like he’s twenty, but he’s really thirteen.

  He parks diagonal in the lot and hops out with the music still blasting.

  Boo runs over and gives him a pound. “Where you get this shit?! This your granddad’s?”

  Quan’s like, “Hell nah, I got this off a crackhead. This a chronic-car.”

  Boo looks it over. “It’s clean though.”

  Quan says, “Yeah, I got this bitch all day, while he’s working. Let’s go.”

  We run back in the house and put on our good clothes; I borrow a shirt from Boo and we bail.

  It’s pretty fun driving around. We pick up a couple more kids. We cop some beer from Hilltop. We roll through all the neighborhoods showing off. When the police get behind us, we turn down the music, everybody takes off their hats and acts cool.

  We end up at the mall looking at shoes. They’re hollering at girls; I’m shoplifting cassette singles. Security kicks us out and we’re behind Mervyn’s taking turns learning how to drive.

  It’s my turn. This my first time, I’m nervous and going real slow.

  Quan’s losing his patience. “Man, park the car, lemme show you.”

  I hop out. He gets behind the wheel and starts whipping it.

  He’s talking shit about how easy it is. “Man, you can’t drive for shit. You drive the car, car don’t drive you. Watch me.”

  He hits a couple donuts, tries to do another one but it’s too tight and runs into a pole. We all get out and look at the damage. The front end’s fucked.

  Boo says, “That front end’s fucked.”

  Quan shrugs. “Oh well.”

  We meet the chronic at the body shop. He’s a nervous-looking white dude in his forties. He’s rail thin with a mustache and glasses, wearing a beat-up Members Only jacket. He looks like he fucks children.

  He’s talking to Quan in the corner, shaking his head, muttering. “Jesus Christ, what the hell happened, Quan?”

  “Dog jumped out and I swerved not to hit it and ended up in a pole.”

  The chronic’s looking out the window at the busted-up car in the parking lot.

  He sighs. “A dog, huh?”

  Quan shrugs. “Yup.”

  We leave the dope fiend with his car and take a cab home.

  We’re back at Boo’s house piled on his mattress watching TV again, bored.

  Quan says, “Y’all wanna get some money?”

  We’re like, “Yeah.”

  He hits his Newport ashes into an old bowl of cereal and says, “Well, y’all got some money?”

  Boo shakes his head, “I’m broke till my daddy get here.”

  Real proud, I say, “I got money.”

  I’m dirt poor. But this Christmas my Nonnie gave me fifty bucks.

  It’s a big deal, they’re usually cheap. They’re Italian immigrants from the depression. They steal napkins from McDonald’s and take the bread home from restaurants.

  The Christmas before, my sister got a broken typewriter and me and Danny got some dead Evereadys.

  We’re like, “Nonno, what we s’posed to do with these dead batteries?”

  He says, “Build something.”

  So getting that fifty was like hitting the lotto. It’s been sitting in my underwear drawer for two months while I figure out what I’m gonna do with it.

  Quan asks, “How much money you got?”

  I say, “Fifty bones. What we gotta do?”

  He says, “I gotta spot on the west side, we can grab you a fifty-dollar double-up and
turn it to a hun’ in a couple hours.”

  I never sold crack before, but I didn’t have shit else to do and a hundred bucks sounded pretty good.

  I say, “Hold up, I’ll be back.”

  I run home, grab the money out my drawer. My mom’s cooking, she’s like, “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Just gonna hit the movies with Boo and ’em.”

  She says, “Well, have fun.”

  I say, “Okay. I love you.” And I’m out the door.

  We take a cab over to Clark and Oakland, hop out and walk over to a field by the railroad tracks. I cop from a fat black kid in a Bulls starter.

  He eyeballs me, looks at Quan, and says, “Who’s this?”

  Quan’s like, “That’s my dog.”

  I’m thinking, Yeah, I’m his dog. I give him the money and get the rock. It’s smaller than I thought it would be. We head to the spot to chop it up.

  It’s a halfway house turned dope-house filled with a bunch of old-ass ex-cons getting served by teenagers. We pass by this nappy-headed black motherfucker sitting on the steps. He’s eating dog food out the can, he shit his pants. He’s muttering.

  Upstairs, the carpet’s ratty, the linoleum’s peeling, the walls are exposed. Quan gives some square-looking white dude a five-dollar pebble to let us use his bedroom. He’s grateful. He stuffs it in a chopped-up radio antenna and smokes it.

  We’re at the dresser cutting up the rock with a razor blade and twisting the smaller pieces in saran wrap. I get ten out of it at ten a pop. I put ’em in my pocket.

  “Now what I do?”

  He says, “Just chill in here and serve these custos.”

  I post up in a lawn chair. I bullshit with Boo and wait for sales. The shit-stained black guy keeps staggering up and down the hallway, stinking up the place.

  An hour goes by, nothing.

  Selling crack is boring.

  A dope fiend shows up with his crack-hoe girlfriend. He’s a Waterford redneck with a moustache and mullet. She’s light-skinned with delicate features. I bet she was pretty once, but her hair’s cooked, her skin’s jaundiced, and her jeans don’t fit.

  Quan and a couple other dudes are in the redneck’s ear working out a deal. Tricks are slow on Clark Street. She’s rocking in the doorway, smoking a cigarette, waiting for them to figure it out.