guy who works
part time nights here, I mean I’ve seen them once or twice, but we’ve never
really spoken. Except for once when he needed me to hand him his jacket, but
that’s it.
I walk around the side of the
building, kiss Lilly on the cheek and take her out for Greek food. She tells me
about a friend of hers who hooks on the other side of town and is now missing.
XII
When
I came home the front door to our trailer was open, just swinging on its
hinges, banging lightly against the tin shell of our mobile home. Inside, the
hideaway bed was tucked in, the drawers where full of my socks, the floor
strewn with my dirty underwear, but all of mom’s stuff was gone.
I slept on the floor because I
couldn’t pull out the bed; my arms weren’t strong enough, so yeah, I slept on
the floor for two days, the door open swinging in the rain and sun and clouded
weather of those forty-eight hours. I missed school and had my first cigarette
on the soggy carpet step, staring at the trailer adjacent to us, feeling
nothing, not even moving the hair from between my lips when the wind blew it
there.
The sleepy social worker showed
up on the second morning. The messy, drawn out bitch, yawned through sentences
like, “Your mother is now a missing person.” And, “Do you know if there is any
coffee in here?”
She opened the cabinets, and when
she saw there was only peanut butter and a mini box of
Corn Flakes she shut them, asked me to move, pulled out the hideaway bed and
collapsed onto it. “Nope, no coffee.”
I just stared at her for a full
ten minutes, her eyes closed, her lips moving in little gasps, like a fish
pulled out of water and tossed onto the floor of a boat. When she woke up, she
looked around, hands absent-mindedly patting her bangs. “Ok, so you ready?”
The only thing I took out of that
trailer was my Donkey Kong pajamas.
I spent the next four years in a
foster home, sleeping in the same room with a deaf girl named Gina. She taught
me sign language and how to dance to music by feeling the vibrations. I taught
her how to make paper airplanes and toys out of twist ties. The first year I
was there, she showed me pictures of her dead parents. The second year, she
showed me how to read brail. The third year, she showed me how to eat
pussy. And the fourth year she showed me
a newspaper detailing the torture and death of an American citizen at the hands
of eight children ranging in age between seven and twelve down in Mexico. The
kids, all orphans, called themselves pirates. They sailed around the coasts of
Mexico in stolen boats, robbing and looting from elderly store owners and lost
tourists. The kids, they found a woman passed out drunk inside one of their
hideouts, some abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere. The kids, the boys,
they kept her there for over a week, locked in the shack, beating her with
chains, pushing pins in her arms and legs and leaving them there for a day or
two. Then they raped her, starting out slow and curious, putting all kinds of
things in her from around the house, the boat, their pockets. They pushed
paperclips inside her urethra, forced crabs inside her vagina, and eventually
made her eat their shit while they pulled all the hair out of her head with
their sticky little hands. Those eight wetback throwaways broke her legs and
all her teeth. The newspaper said when the police found her she didn’t have a
face and one of her arms was missing. The kids only got caught because after
the lady was dead the older boys started raping the youngest one and making him eat their feces. The little boy ran away, got taken in
to the cop shop by some day sailing tourists. At the police station, the little
smudge agreed to show authorities where the other ‘pirates’ were hiding. When
the cops got there, they found the boys, beating and raping each other. Shoving
handfuls of shit down each others throats.
Two weeks after Gina showed me
that newspaper, she was eating me out in the bathtub when my
part time nights here, I mean I’ve seen them once or twice, but we’ve never
really spoken. Except for once when he needed me to hand him his jacket, but
that’s it.
I walk around the side of the
building, kiss Lilly on the cheek and take her out for Greek food. She tells me
about a friend of hers who hooks on the other side of town and is now missing.
XII
When
I came home the front door to our trailer was open, just swinging on its
hinges, banging lightly against the tin shell of our mobile home. Inside, the
hideaway bed was tucked in, the drawers where full of my socks, the floor
strewn with my dirty underwear, but all of mom’s stuff was gone.
I slept on the floor because I
couldn’t pull out the bed; my arms weren’t strong enough, so yeah, I slept on
the floor for two days, the door open swinging in the rain and sun and clouded
weather of those forty-eight hours. I missed school and had my first cigarette
on the soggy carpet step, staring at the trailer adjacent to us, feeling
nothing, not even moving the hair from between my lips when the wind blew it
there.
The sleepy social worker showed
up on the second morning. The messy, drawn out bitch, yawned through sentences
like, “Your mother is now a missing person.” And, “Do you know if there is any
coffee in here?”
She opened the cabinets, and when
she saw there was only peanut butter and a mini box of
Corn Flakes she shut them, asked me to move, pulled out the hideaway bed and
collapsed onto it. “Nope, no coffee.”
I just stared at her for a full
ten minutes, her eyes closed, her lips moving in little gasps, like a fish
pulled out of water and tossed onto the floor of a boat. When she woke up, she
looked around, hands absent-mindedly patting her bangs. “Ok, so you ready?”
The only thing I took out of that
trailer was my Donkey Kong pajamas.
I spent the next four years in a
foster home, sleeping in the same room with a deaf girl named Gina. She taught
me sign language and how to dance to music by feeling the vibrations. I taught
her how to make paper airplanes and toys out of twist ties. The first year I
was there, she showed me pictures of her dead parents. The second year, she
showed me how to read brail. The third year, she showed me how to eat
pussy. And the fourth year she showed me
a newspaper detailing the torture and death of an American citizen at the hands
of eight children ranging in age between seven and twelve down in Mexico. The
kids, all orphans, called themselves pirates. They sailed around the coasts of
Mexico in stolen boats, robbing and looting from elderly store owners and lost
tourists. The kids, they found a woman passed out drunk inside one of their
hideouts, some abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere. The kids, the boys,
they kept her there for over a week, locked in the shack, beating her with
chains, pushing pins in her arms and legs and leaving them there for a day or
two. Then they raped her, starting out slow and curious, putting all kinds of
things in her from around the house, the boat, their pockets. They pushed
paperclips inside her urethra, forced crabs inside her vagina, and eventually
made her eat their shit while they pulled all the hair out of her head with
their sticky little hands. Those eight wetback throwaways broke her legs and
all her teeth. The newspaper said when the police found her she didn’t have a
face and one of her arms was missing. The kids only got caught because after
the lady was dead the older boys started raping the youngest one and making him eat their feces. The little boy ran away, got taken in
to the cop shop by some day sailing tourists. At the police station, the little
smudge agreed to show authorities where the other ‘pirates’ were hiding. When
the cops got there, they found the boys, beating and raping each other. Shoving
handfuls of shit down each others throats.
Two weeks after Gina showed me
that newspaper, she was eating me out in the bathtub when my
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