The Dirt Chronicles

by Kristyn Dunnion

  “Oh, she’s wearing the Jon Benét booties,” squeals Darcy. “Bold move. She’ll totally win now.”

  “Not if they call Children’s Aid, she won’t.”

  “Children’s Hate? You want to sic those dried-up social workers on Crystal Dawn? What’s wrong with you?”

  He thinks I despise these girls since I hated being one myself.

  “Crystal Dawn’s mother is a great manager, Sly. Her stylist has impeccable taste!”

  “Whatever.”

  “You know, I used to dream about being in pageants. Only my mom didn’t care enough to put me in them.”

  “You want a mother like that? That can’t stay out of her track pants long enough to make another baby to pimp out?”

  “At least they can see their children’s potential.”

  “Potential of a cum-crusted death in a scary basement?”

  The lady stiffens. I duck down again instinctively.

  Darcy whispers, “It’s swimsuit time. Look.”

  They’re all lined up in their fruity two pieces, but I stare at the space off-stage and at the crowd during the sweeping camera shots. I’m looking for the forgotten siblings: a truly ugly step-sister, some invisible brother, or unloved cousin. Maybe a henpecked husband, guarding the miniature designer dresses, yawning. Somebody real. Someone you can sink your teeth into.

  During the next commercial break, the lady goes into her kitchen. We lie flat on our backs. Darcy tries to think who we can score off of.

  “I thought you wanted to get clean.”

  “I did. But now I’m not so sure,” he says. “Being sober is boring.”

  “Oh, so I’m boring?” I ask, pouting.

  “I didn’t say that. You’re so touchy.”

  “Anyways,” I say, “being bored is better than being dead.”

  “Ooh.” Darcy pokes my arm.

  I push his finger away. One week hiding out at the Professor’s and Darcy has forgotten all about being scared to death, about being hunted by the King. He wants back in the game.

  He says, “I know I freaked. I was wigging. But I’m fine now. I just want to get high.”

  I did a bad mistake but tonight I’m gonna be perfect.

  I shrug Crystal Dawn’s voice out of my head. “Well, we’re shit outta luck, man.”

  “Maybe not. A lot can change in a few days,” he says.

  “We’re still broke. We still owe a lot of money. Actually, you owe a lot of money, but somehow I always get stuck paying.” Fuck if that don’t piss me off.

  “You make me sound like an asshole,” he says cheerfully.

  “The pigs are probably still looking for us. So we won’t be making any money tonight.”

  “Fuck,” says Darcy.

  “Pretend we’re on Celebrity Rehab. Famous people pay a lot to be someplace they can’t get high. We got it for free.”

  “You’re whack.” Darcy snaps his fingers. “The courier! We could stop by his place, see what he’s got.” Darcy sparkles just thinking of that big blond boy.

  “He took you to his place?” A lump hardens in my stomach.

  “So?” Darcy’s eyes shift. “How do you think I got his sweater?” His lip curls into a sneer.

  I remember the night he showed up wearing it, while I was working double time. The night of the storm, when we ended up crashing the Professor’s pad.

  “Well, without a GPS tracker you’ll never find your way back there.” I try to joke, but there’s an edge to my voice.

  His face tightens. He knows it’s true, so he can’t exactly argue. Darcy sighs. “I wish I was a girl model. I bet they get all the drugs they want. Plus I’d wear dresses everyday.”

  “Why?” I snort.

  “My legs look good in them. And they come off lickety-split.” He smiles prettily. “When’s the last time you wore one?”

  “First day of kindergarten. My mom made me. Teacher made me line up with the girls and I was like, no, I’m a boy. I kept going into the boys’ line, and she kept pulling me out, so I kicked her. I put the frigging dress in the garbage. They called my mom cuz I was running around in my underwear, yelling.”

  “Troublemaker.”

  “Yeah, we used to fight all the time. She didn’t get it.” I chuck a small stone over the edge of the stairs, hear it hit the gravel parking lane below.

  “She probably got it, she just didn’t like it.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, you hate this show?”

  “Kind of,” I say. “It’s so fake, all the stuff they do to them. But it’s like they’re making little girly monsters, which is cool.”

  “If you hate it so much, why watch it?”

  “Well, you love it. So it reminds me what a Gaylord you are!” I laugh and Darcy steamrolls me, and that makes me laugh even harder.

  “Hallo!” There’s a sharp rap on the window ledge.

  We sit up. The old lady must be standing behind the couch. She’s right at the window. I put my hands up to block whatever she’ll throw this time.

  “Okay, we’re leaving,” says Darcy. He scrambles toward the steps, grabs the railing for balance.

  “S’okay. S’okay,” she says and motions us to come closer.

  I don’t move.

  “Hold dat.” She passes two flowered plates through the open window. Each one has a little sandwich on it, cut diagonally. Darcy takes them, his mouth hanging open. “You gif me plates beck after.”

  “Thanks,” I say finally. We sit back down on the stairs with our snack. Darcy sniffs his like a hungry dog. He looks at me. I shrug. She nods and waves: go ahead. The bread is strange—dark, heavy. When I put a bit in my mouth, it is soft and good. Darcy digs in, takes a big bite, and hums while he chews. I take another small mouthful. There are slabs of cold butter on it. Then there’s some kind of filling, cream cheese with chopped green onions. Nothing I ever ate before. The creamy part is salty and also a bit sweet. It tastes good. The lady smiles at us and then she sits back down on the couch.

  For the final few minutes of the show, we actually lean farther in the window. We don’t have to be quiet or anything. “Kreestal Don, number von,” says the lady. She sticks her wrinkly thumb up. Darcy sticks his thumb up, too. I’m out-voted.

  “Crystal Dawn definitely has personality,” I say.

  “Charisma,” says Darcy.

  “She can’t take the pressure,” I say. “Not of being Little Miss West Virginia.”

  “Vat you say.” The lady frowns at me. “Shoosh.”

  Darcy says, “Yeah, Sly. Shoosh.”

  The host is about to announce the results. “Which three will it be tonight?” There is a drum roll. The mothers rub their good luck charms. Tarabelle, who forgot her choreography half-way through the song, she’s gone. No surprise there. She wails as one of the handlers leads her off stage. The camera bounces back and forth over the tense faces of the remaining contestants. The cake eaters, Morghan and Tressa, look terrified. Rhianna is pale. Did she wear the right dress after all? Apparently. It’s Morghan and Tressa who get kicked off for poor performances and bad attitude, according to the judges. They leave the stage shame-faced, one biting her lower lip, the other wiping at tears.

  Crystal Dawn is safe! Darcy and the old lady cheer. The host reminds us there are only four girls left—the heat is on! Next week promises to be even more scandalous. One of the parents is caught sabotaging another girl’s props in the green room.

  Darcy hands back our plates. “That was really good,” he says.

  The lady looks at us. Her old blue eyes see past our dirt and bruises, my messy hair, and the sores on Darcy’s arms. “Next veek, you bring cheeps. I like peekle flavour, yes?”

  We nod. Yes.

  Pig House Party

  Everyone who squats the Factory has to agree on something like having a party, so I figure it’ll never happen. Which is perfect because it won’t be my fault. It’ll be the fault of our dumb-ass collective who can’t agree on anything, not even wha
t to have for breakfast. So I write “party” on the house meeting agenda, right after “dishes.”

  “Washing dishes is bougie,” says Cricket. We’re all sitting at the kitchen table except for Cricket, who sits cross-legged on the table, painting his nails bright blue to match his mohawk. “The bougie middle class, afraid of germs, so scared to think about what happens to stuff once it’s no longer perfect. That’s why they obsess on dishwashing and laundry and floor cleaners. They don’t want to face the reality that life is one big organic mess and we’re all going to die.” He blows on his nails.

  Digit scratches his facial hair. He is trying to grow a goatee like Anton LaVey so he will look more evil for his future black metal band, but right now it’s just itchy chin scruff. He sighs and finally pipes up in his heavy Acadian accent. “What’s the big deal? Hif you need someting, take it. Hif it’s dirty, wash it! We got to be more independent, tabarnak.” He adjusts his bullet belt, which hangs around the hips of his skinny jeans.

  “Exactly,” says Oreo. She chews the end of her long black braid. She’s been quiet all meeting, hardly even paying attention. Her voice is hoarse, still messed up from yesterday’s run-in with the King. Bruises are coming up on her pretty brown skin. “Even Zapatistas wash their plates.” She points to the photo taped above the sink; guerrillas cleaning their dishes in a river, their semi-automatic weapons lying on the grassy bank.

  “Yuppie propaganda,” says Cricket. He tightens the lid on the nail polish and flutters his hands.

  Oreo says, “That’s authentic revolutionary footage.”

  Cricket says, “Whatever. It’s not like we have an entire military campaign hunting us like the Zapatistas did. We can afford to leave a few plates around. What about our grey water politics?”

  We look at the propped-open window where we scoop water from the rain barrel outside. We use rainwater to wash dishes and ourselves. The leftover dish and bath water is for plants and to flush the toilet when it’s full.

  “The entire planet is in a water crisis, and Oreo wants us to wash dishes? Unreal.”

  Oreo’s eyes narrow. “I just want everyone to pull his own weight.”

  “Point taken,” I say quickly. I signal Cricket to cut it out. Oreo is in no mood. That cop fucked us up, and not just physically. The King broke something inside Oreo, something I don’t know how to fix.

  “Oh, don’t get all essentialist on me, Oreo. Gender is a social construct; this squat is living proof. Washing dishes has nothing to do with whatever I might have between my legs!” Cricket rolls his eyes.

  “Not today,” says Oreo. Her voice breaks.

  “Fine,” he says loudly. Cricket yanks up his patched hood and pulls the drawstrings tight, so his face disappears completely. There are funny lumps where his mohawk bends under the weight of the fabric.

  “Man, you always got to talk about penis,” says Digit. “Why you don’t just wash your plate? Hit’s easy.”

  Oreo has a spark of life back in her now. “Yeah, don’t start what you can’t finish, Cricket. I’m sick of cleaning up after white boys.”

  Digit sighs again, loudly. “Alright, everyone try to wash their own dish, and also try not to be total jerks.” He drums his knuckles on the table in front of him. “Ça marche?”

  Silence.

  “Seriously, guys. I want dat in the minutes,” says Digit. “For the people who isn’t here, who probably should be more serieux about the collective. In New Brunswick, we don’t have dis kind of ting. You get in the group or you get out, you know?”

  He means red-headed Darcy. Darcy used to panhandle at the underpass with me, over a year ago. He’s been around town and then some, always got his hand in some shit or other. He came to a punk show a while back and decided he was moving in, at least part time.

  “Are we gonna talk about him or what?” says Oreo.

  “It’s not on the agenda,” says Cricket in a muffled voice. “And we don’t talk about people when they aren’t here, remember?”

  Oreo says, “That kid is sketch. We said no junkies in the squat. We have to talk about it.”

  Digit says, “He have some bad friends. He owe a lot of money, I hear dat for sure.”

  I say, “He needs someplace safe. He seems sick. Where else can he go?”

  Cricket says, “Well, where is he right now for our meeting? We’re not an effing drop-in, we’re a intentional freegan community!”

  I say, “So we want to change the world but not help the people who live in it?”

  Cricket sighs loudly.

  Digit scratches his face again. “Who’s writing da minutes?”

  Cricket loosens his hoodie and peers out. “Oh crap, I’m supposed to.” He rummages for a pen that works and for paper in the recycling box. There is a terrific lull while he scribbles down the stuff we’ve been talking about for the past hour: Don’t forget to compost. Worm bucket is outside, other organics in the back field. Whose turn is it to water the plants? Our tomatoes are almost ripe! Let’s dumpster less food so we waste less, or let’s invite people over so they can help us eat it all. And: Oreo wants us to wash our dishes so she can stop being an uptight bougie twat.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” he says. “Damn, I wrecked a nail.”

  Digit says, “Who’s chairing the meeting?”

  “Oh. I am.” I clear my throat. “So, uh, next item. Oreo was thinking we should have a party for my birthday next Saturday. What do you think? Probably a big hassle. Imagine how many dirty dishes there’ll be.”

  “Very funny,” says Oreo.

  Cricket stops flitting his blue fingernails around, and says it’s a great idea. “Maybe we can even make some cash, selling beers and whatnot.”

  I cringe.

  Oreo frowns. “No money. This is for Ferret.”

  Cricket says, “So, how you gonna pay back that fifty bucks you owe?”

  Oreo says nothing, and I say nothing. Fifty bucks is a lot. I get my welfare in a few days, but Oreo wants to use some of it to get stuff for the party. Stuff we can’t barter or beg or dumpster for ourselves.

  Digit yawns, says we should get some bands to play, like his new band, only they haven’t really started jamming yet, but they’d be able to maybe play some songs by then. “Maybe one or two. Black fucking metal.” He makes devil horns with his fingers.

  Oreo says, “No way, man. I’m DJing for Ferret so she can dance. We need something with a beat.”

  Then Digit says, “Maybe we should have other DJs, too, for musicale diversité,” and Oreo says, “Like who? Who is more diverse than an Ojibwe lesbian dance party like me?”

  Digit says, “Not a more diverse person, I mean some good music.”

  Oreo sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes.

  I laugh.

  Digit says that at his first band practice, which turned into a tremendous beer and barf festival, he met Nefarious Rancor who’s visiting from New York. “I can probably hook that up,” he says. “He does brutal solo shit. The band is usually booked for, like, months, but he’s in town right now. Only he might want some money to play.”

  And Cricket says, “Oh yeah? Well, I heard that dude’s in rehab, and his rich Thornhill parents are paying for it, and that’s the only reason he’s here. Anyway, how are we gonna pay some metal Gaylord if we don’t even charge cover?”

  “He’s not gay, he’s bisexual,” says Digit quickly. “I hear that, anyways.”

  “We’re not charging cover,” says Oreo. “It’s a birthday party. And I wouldn’t complain about rich parents if I were you, Cricket.”

  Cricket ignores her completely. “What about hot Geraldo’s band, Migrant? That would be wicked. People will totally come for that.”

  “I love Migrant!” I say.

  “Why don’t you ask your mom for some cash?” Oreo asks Cricket, sneering.

  “Okay, let’s not talk about parents,” I say quickly.

  I don’t have any, so it doesn’t matter to me. But this is the kind of thing that ca
n get ugly fast. Digit grew up between the curb and the closet, no joke. Oreo’s mom and aunt were killed by a drunk driver on New Year’s Eve two years ago in Sudbury. But Cricket’s family wires him money whenever he needs it, thinking he lives in residence at the university. The fact that he chooses to live the freegan life strictly for political reasons while still attending classes is great and all, but sometimes it rubs Oreo the wrong way.

  “All right, I’m sorry.” Cricket is quiet for almost an entire minute.

  “Happy break,” I say. We do that sometimes if stuff gets tense. Just move around in that big old building, skateboard up and down the long length of it, maybe have a snack.

  Cricket stays put, dejected. He hates being reminded of his race, gender, and class privilege. It makes him feel less radical. Digit shrugs and says he’ll make everybody peanut butter sandwiches on the bagels we scored today. Typical Digit, always thinking of the group. Oreo lies on the floor and stretches like a cat.

  I go for a walk in the field between the Factory and the slaughterhouse. Really it’s just an empty lot, a no-man’s land where folks have been dumping shit for years. I like to look at our brick building, especially on a night like tonight with all those pretty stars out and with an almost-full moon pouring down, lighting up our house from space.

  “Hey, Ferret.”

  The voice comes from over by the slaughterhouse. It’s Eddie, sitting on the ledge having a smoke break. When he waves, the motion-sensitive outdoor security light blinks on. He’s in the spotlight now, wearing coveralls and the long, bloody rubber apron and tall rubber boots. I don’t want to be rude so I go over, even though I hate the whole pig blood situation.