The Dirt Chronicles

by Kristyn Dunnion

  The King’s eyes are flat, unblinking. I stare him down while I undo my wet shorts; they drop to the floor with a slap. My bare skin prickles into goose bumps. My thing shrivels up like a small turtle. I see his eyes drop down to look at me. I step out of the crumpled shorts and slowly walk past him toward another pile of stuff farther away.

  “Hurry up, Princess,” says Anderson. “It’s not a fashion show. We got work to do.”

  I swish the silver scarf over my shoulder. The long end of it tickles my bare bum. I pick up a pair of red spandex shorts some girl probably wore under her skirt. I step into them, pull them up over my shoes, all the way to the waist. Perfect.

  “Fine,” I say. I put the sunglasses low on my nose and sashay over to the back door. “Coming, officers?”

  The King opens the car door for me. I raise my hand, Ta. I slide across the wide back seat and cross my legs. I tap my sneaker on the divider that separates me from the front seat. I can feel the packages shimmy around in there. I need a bump. The King slams my door. He gets in the front, slams that door, too. I can see the grey in the back of his hair. I never noticed it before. Salt and pepper, so distinguished. The radio bleeps. Anderson gets in his side and, voilà, another slam. The King calls the dispatcher, says they’re investigating the old chair factory crime scene. Tracking a witness. Following leads. He hangs up the radio. He opens his window, spits. Finally, he starts the engine.

  Anderson says, “Fuck-load of paper work for one bullet, wouldn’t you say?”

  The King says, “Shut up.”

  “No, seriously. Was it worth it?”

  “Maybe. If those douchebag lawyers don’t screw it up.”

  One little bullet.

  I remember the gun last night, the sound and smell of it, the way everyone freaked. Everyone else ploughing their way out of the Factory, and me with my eyes on the floor, on hands, pockets; me seeing flashes of silver, little clear baggies, and tiny pill boxes, the fancy ones those rich kids shake around. Crumb-snatcher me, picking it all up, hiding in the back of the couch for hours, quietly tweaking, organizing my fluff balls while chaos blew through the Factory, and later, while the cops did their thing and closed the place down.

  Great party.

  “We’re taking you to all the hot spots, Darcy,” says Officer Anderson. “The underpass, the drop-in, the parks. You’ll be hitting the streets, asking around, then meeting up with us every hour or so.”

  Good, I think. I can totally get high and keep my buzz on. The only question is—back to crystal light, or should I save that for better times? Should I shake and bake the coke, cook up some crack, and sell it around? That’d be good for coin.

  “We need you to find Emily. Uh—Ferret.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we lost her,” says Anderson.

  “Shut up,” says the King.

  “Sorry. But we had her. Then we didn’t.”

  The King turns around, his eyebrows hunch in toward the deep frown in the middle of his forehead. “She witnessed the shooting last night. We need her cooperation. Your job is to tell people, even if they don’t ask, that André, uh, Digit needs her to come forward. Got it?”

  “Hmm,” I say. “That’s easy.”

  “You tell people we got the shooter. Edward. But we need the witness.”

  I’m important. I pretend the King is my chauffeur. I sit very tall, chin up, my new sunglasses on. I’m Lady Gaga. Beyoncé. I’m Michael Effing Jackson.

  The car rolls down the gravel laneway. We swerve to let another pig truck through. I fall against the door with the sudden movement.

  “Shit,” says the King.

  The big truck stops and reverses, pulls up and stalls right beside the police car.

  “Shit,” says Anderson.

  When the engine cuts, all you can hear is the animals squealing, snorting, and grunting. The smell of them and their manure fills the car. I cover my nose with the scarf.

  “Phoo,” says Anderson. He waves his hand in front of his face.

  The truck revs up again. The engine shudders and chokes to life; it roars and partially drowns out the terrified pig sounds. The driver honks and gestures. He wants us to back up, to give him some more room. The King stays put. Dust churns up around us. Exhaust blasts out the back end of the big machine. The driver manages to squeeze his truck beside us after all.

  I stare out the window—all those stacked crates, those round snouts, those big asses and flapping ears cruise past. One big pig, brown with lighter blobs on it, stares right back at me. We’re only a couple feet apart, me and this pig, and only the cruiser glass and the crate wall between us. Those small pink eyes find mine and won’t look away. I take off my glasses. I blink. The pig blinks back. Then the cop car lurches ahead and I can’t see it anymore, even when I twist to look out the back window. The King turns right at the end of the lane. My stomach cramps up again. I grit my teeth and squeeze my butt cheeks together ’til the pain rolls away. Close call.

  The King lays on the accelerator. Dust blows in his window, wind fills my mouth. I put my glasses back on, wrap the silver scarf over my hair like a movie star.

  This is nothing, I think. As long as I have shit to snort and shit to bake and shit to tell the cops, I’ll be just fine.

  The drop-in is usually packed on Sundays—free food, free laundry. It’s warm and dry. It’s loud. Kids trying to watch a movie, kids shooting pool, kids making a mess in the kitchen. Sundays you can work off your hangover, shower, catch up on the weekend gossip, crash out for a bit in the corner. Visit High Heaven. Chill with the gang. Most days, it’d be easy to get the word out about Ferret. Thing is, today there’s no one, just the blonde social worker and the Knitter. I hear needles clickety-click from across the room.

  “Hey,” I say.

  The Knitter nods.

  “Where is everyone?”

  He shrugs. His hands and those long needles keep moving. At his feet a ball of multi-coloured yarn unrolls a bit more with each jerk of his mammoth forearms. The finished knitting hangs down all the way to the floor. The Knitter is the largest security dude at the drop-in. Someone said he used to be a pro wrestler. I wouldn’t be surprised. His neck is thicker than my thigh.

  “Nice. You making a sweater-dress?”

  He grunts.

  “Wait, wait, let me guess. A poncho? I think they’re in for fall.”

  His eyebrows bash into each other when he frowns. “Scarf,” he says in his bottomless-pit voice.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s a pretty long scarf. Even for you.”

  He pauses and looks right at me. His eyes are close-set in his huge face with his enormous bald head. “What do you mean?” he rumbles.

  “Well, you’re a big man and all. But it takes a certain something to pull off such an extreme scarf.” I flick the end of my silver fabric for effect. “I can give you some tips, like for wrapping it and making turbans, that sort of thing. It’s one of my specialties.”

  “I’m not gonna wear it,” he says gruffly. “It’s part of my recovery.”

  “Oh.” I tap my shoe on the ground. “Recovery from what?”

  “Smoking and drinking and stuff.”

  “Does it work?” I push my sunglasses up onto my head and peer closer at his big hands.

  “Addictions, man. You never stop thinking about it, but if you keep your hands busy, you don’t do it. See?”

  “Hmm.” Truth is, he’s probably right. There’s no way he could spark up a joint or open a bottle or shoot himself up with those gargantuan fingers fiddling away.

  “When you give it up, you still got to recover from all the damage you did. Mentally, physically, spiritually. I knit. It helps.” He stops talking as abruptly as he started. He goes back to his work, clickety-clack, and I shrug my shoulders. Who effing knew?

  “Hello, Darcy,” says the chunky blonde in the kitchen area.

  “Pame-lah,” I sing her name. “Have you seen Fairy-Ferret?”

  “Not today.
You aren’t the first to come looking for her, either. She in trouble?” She sets her knife down and gives me a hard stare.

  “No. Cops want her for a witness. Someone shot Digit, you know.”

  “I do. It’s just terrible.” She sniffs loudly. I notice her eyes are red.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Maybe. He’s a good kid. Never hurt anyone. Is it true he owed Eddie money?”

  I shrug. Eddie? Fuck, I owe Eddie.

  Pamela picks up the knife and goes back to mutilating fruit for a salad that only the Knitter will eat. She’s always trying to shove food down our throats.

  I lean against the kitchen counter like it’s a ballet bar. I point my sneakers and lift my knobby legs up high.

  “Feet down when I’m working.” She swats my foot.

  That’s when I swipe the baking soda from the top shelf under the counter. I tuck it in the front of my red shorts, smooth my long shirt over top.

  I yawn, and she pops a piece of something awful in my mouth.

  “Don’t spit it out,” she says. “It’s papaya. Good for digestion.”

  The rubbery lump sits uninvited on my tongue.

  “What and when was your last meal?”

  “Uh …” I can’t remember. I’m chewing and swallowing the fruit, but it might just fly right back up and out of me.

  “Here.” She shoves a bottle of orange juice at me. “Scurvy’s not just for pirates anymore. Argggh.”

  I roll my eyes. Pamela is so embarrassing. Good thing none of the hot boys are here. I take a bottle of water instead. I can use it with soda to cook the crack.

  “May I use the harm reduction closet?”

  Pamela’s face twitches. “I wish you would eat something first.”

  “Ah, mama, I ain’t hungry.” I bat my lashes at her.

  She sighs. “There’s no one in there right now. Do you need help with anything?” Her voice goes up thin and squeaky at the end. That’s how I know she is not really down with the whole shooting up or smoking crack in the “safe” room thing. It was definitely not her idea to get it going, but she wants us to like her so bad she goes along with it.

  “Fresh pipes, screens, and lip balm are all in the basket,” she says. “Needles, too.”

  That’s good, I think. Because once I finish off all my charity cocaine—I’ll have a snort while I gear up, then shake and bake so I can free-base some of that beautiful stuff—I’m back to firing rocks in a pipe like usual.

  “Don’t forget to put the exhaust fan on this time. And take some condoms for later, okay?”

  I take the water and stuff a few sugar cookies in my shirt pocket. Then I make a beeline for High Heaven, which is what we call the closet.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I blow him a kiss. “I had a great time. Call me.”

  The King glares. He spits out his open window. Then he guns it, exhaust blowing out the back of the cop car.

  I sashay down the alley, toward Kiddie Porn Park. It’s a bit early, but soon the boys and hos will slink out with the alley cats. Pros and dealers chase the day walkers, with their strollers and lattes and dogs on leashes, their rollerblades. Day walkers go home for pork chops and prime-time TV while we work the trade all night long. So it goes.

  I’m itching to bang some more of that lottery blow; now I’m convinced snorting is a waste of good drugs. The needles and crack kits didn’t fit in my shirt pocket, so Pamela gave me a fanny pack for my gear. It’s around my waist, tucked inside my tight red shorts, hidden by my shirt layers. More junk in my trunk.

  I jump on the merry-go-round, and one of the straggling mothers gives me a dirty look. I hiss, Goth style. I pump with one foot in the sand, speeding the thing up and hang on as it twirls around and around, fast. I laugh out loud. Especially when she grabs her kid from the sandbox and stuffs him, crying, into a stroller and pushes him away.

  “Bye bye,” I yell after her. I lie down, flat on my back, look up at the spinning sky until the thing slows down.

  “Yo, Darcy. What up, man? Where you been?”

  I can’t see him, but I know the voice: it’s Lil’ Brat. Two brown hands grab the merry-go-round rail. He runs, pulling the thing around fast again. Sand sprays up from the ground, into my open mouth. Lil’ Brat yells and dives on top of me. He shrieks again, right in my ear. “Get off—” I start coughing. I can’t breathe.

  “I’m a pussy-pop yo face,” he says.

  He bounces on top of me, humping my red shorts while we spin around and around. “How much to let me fuck your tight ass, blue veiner?”

  I shriek.

  Another mother stomps past with twins. She shakes her massive diaper bag at us.

  I’m laughing and coughing and wheezing.

  “You know I want to get my ting right up you,” he says, loud enough for the lady to hear. She walks faster and he yells, “Oh yeah, baby.”

  Lil’ Brat rolls off me. I feel for the fanny pack; it’s still there. I shake my sneakers. The foil packages rattle.

  When the merry-go-round stops completely, Lil’ Brat climbs up and sits in the centre. He’s wearing a skin-tight pink shirt, cropped above the nipples. You can see his tight abs, toned belly, sharp hip bones. His tight white shorts show off his booty stack. He’s wearing rhinestone-studded pink flats, and his hair is braided with beads. He rubs his own titties and strikes a pose. “So, where you been?”

  When I catch my breath I say, “Who cares? Let’s bang,” and he says, “Alright.”

  We crawl inside the miniature plastic castle on the playground, and I cook it up fast in my new kit. I offer him a needle, still in the plastic, but he says, “Don’t waste it,” so we share one instead. We jam it, one after the other. This shit is good—Lil’ Brat smiles and nods. We lean back against the plastic walls and chill.

  I’m thinking about the rest of what I got. Should I shoot it or snort it or shake and bake that shit? I never had so much all at once.

  “Me and Sly got a place,” I say, after a while. “Over in the gaybourhood. In some dude’s house while he’s away.”

  “You married or what?” Lil’ Brat laughs.

  “No way. Just stepped out for a bit. All that shit going down. You got picked up, right?”

  “Hell, yeah. Threatened to send me back to Africville if I don’t get my shit together. So I sucked his dick and he let me go.”

  “Who, the King? No way.” I can’t believe he’d pick Lil’ Brat over me.

  “Naw, that guy is messed. I mean the blond. Anderson.” Lil’ Brat’s white teeth shine in the gloom. “He likes a brown girl.”

  “Huh.” Usually I can tell right away if I can sex my way out of a jam. With these pigs, it never got me out of anything, just back in deeper. “What do you think of the King?”

  “Creep show.”

  “I think he’s handsome in that Bad Daddy kind of way. Like an old movie.”

  “Maybe an old scary movie.”

  “I think he likes me.”

  Lil’ Brat laughs. “Shit.”

  “You think I’m joking?”

  “You watch yourself, Darcy. Pigs hate kids. And the King hates us even worse.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Imagine the King driving me all over town, getting me fries in the drive-through, Slurpies at 7-Eleven. Picking up little presents at work and slipping them under my pillow at night.” I had a trick that did that all the time. I told him it was lame, but now I think it’s kind of nice.

  “You must be high,” he says, laughing.

  “Don’t be tripping just because I’m in love and important now—”

  Lil’ Brat waves his hand in my face. “Love, hah. Speaking of important, I saw Ray-Ray this morning. That boy is a mess. Can’t find his man. Says Eddie’s locked up.”

  “Yeah. He shot Digit.”

  “What? Eddie don’t pack. He’s wild, but he’s not all that.”

  “That’s the word. Ferret, she seen it, and cops want her for a witness. You know where she’s at?”

&nbs
p; “What? She’s at Ray-Ray’s, freaking out with him.”

  “Okay.” I smile. Things are falling into place. I figure we can dose some more, chill. I can find the King when I’m good and ready. I can take him right over there, right to Ferret and Ray-Ray. He’ll be so impressed. You came through for us, Darcy. I remember his velvet voice booming around the Factory, filling the huge space. Just like Elvis Presley. Then the hit—he sure can pack one.

  “I got to go talk to her in a bit.”

  “Yeah. Bust that out again, Darcy. That’s some good shit you got.”

  I smile. It sure is.

  Big House

  “You’re in the Big House now, young man. C North, number eighteen.” Screw opens the cell door for me.

  Men’s voices echo off the grey walls, grey floors, grey bars. TVs hang from the ceiling in the middle of the hallway, all of them blaring different channels. Doors slam, buzzers blast through tinny speakers, engines rumble. Underneath all that is the whirl of electrical systems, the hum of fluorescent lights. My heels dig into the floor, all on their own.

  Screw pushes me. He slams the door. “Play nice, Leroy,” he says to the lump in the top bunk.

  The lump grunts.

  Screw whistles as he walks all the way back to the range doors next to the elevators. Back to his chair and his dog-eared magazine and his half-eaten bag of chips.

  The lump waves a tattooed arm in the air. “That’s right. You in the Big House now.”

  I never been in real jail before, but I know this ain’t the Big House. We’re in the frigging Don Jail, not Penetang. Not Kingston.

  Leroy sits up. “You best hit the showers. I be smelling you all the way up here. That ain’t right.” He wrinkles his nose. He’s got three teardrops tattooed beside his right eye. I don’t miss his colours, neither.

  I lean against the bars, feel the metal press into my back. I do reek, truth. My stink reaches right up my nose into my brain. But I don’t know about the whole prison shower thing. Like, if it’s how you see on TV, I’d rather rot. I look around the place. It’s small, I’d say eight by eight.