Guttersnipe Read online

  Guttersnipe

  By Matthew Trigg

  Chapter 1

  A street sweeper passes through the intersection of 14th and Marionette.

  What a hell of a way to wake up. The first thing Roger sees when he opens his eyes is the slogan on the side of the machine.

  ‘We make being down in the gutters a clean place to be.’

  That’s great. Just great.

  Roger is a bum in a big city. He’s not sure of the name or size, and he’s never really cared. There’s no point in knowing something dumb like that. Roger doesn’t even know how old he really is. Maybe thirty-five.

  ‘God, he smells.’ says a passerby from Roger’s memories.

  ‘I bet his beard is full of grease and lice.’

  ‘Get a job!’ screams the zoot-suit-slicked-back-tough-guy-act millionaire.

  ‘Oh you poor thing! Have some money.’ A mother with a baby.

  ‘This is what gives us hardworkin’ Americans a bad name.’ points some average Joe.

  ‘Get out of my god damn garbage!’

  ‘Have you Jesus Christ in your life?’

  ‘Are you fighting an addiction to drugs?’

  ‘Wash your clothes, you filthy mutt!’

  ‘Find a homeless shelter. They take care of your kind there.’

  Chapter 2

  Roger rolls over to his stomach then stands to his feet. There are a few leaves and other gutter native trash hanging from his fuzzy brown heavy coat. He brushes it off. The sun is coming up already.

  Traffic will pick up soon.

  It always does.

  Roger grabs something that he found last night; a box of Cheerios. He put it deep in a rusty dumpster nearby before he fell asleep. A full box of Cheerios is a good find. It’s worth at least four good meals, maybe five. Just needs a bit of water.

  Roger goes to the river. A river that runs through most of the city and far beyond the city limits on both ends.

  Hopefully Maynard isn’t there. Maynard and his skinny eyes and his drooping nose and his sad, thin shoulders. He always takes the best spot on the river. He and his shopping cart full of useless shit. Who does he think he is, anyways? Always parading around with that junk? He doesn’t even need a fifth of that filth. It seems like everyday he has a new coat or a new bowl or a new shirt or a new hat.

  More.

  More.

  More.

  Roger walks through the city park, and there’s Maynard. There’s Maynard’s shopping cart piled high whatever, right smack where Roger’s spot is on the river.

  “Ugh.”

  Maynard shaves. He shaved recently. Who does he think he is? And who is he trying to impress? He’s a god damn bum.

  “Get out of my spot, Maynard.”

  “No.” He’s lying down, anchored on one of his elbows, with his legs one on top of the other.

  “Now.”

  “I was here first. And who says it’s your spot?” Maynard is eating a box of Fruit Loops.

  “I’ve been coming here more than you have.”

  “Yea, that’s exactly why I think it should be my turn for a little while.”

  “I’ve got cereal to eat.”

  “So do I.”

  Roger hates Maynard.

  Roger thinks Maynard hates Roger more than Roger hates Maynard.

  More.

  More.

  More. Roger thinks Maynard is a more whore.

  “Piss off.” Roger starts walking away.

  “Hey, where are you going? You have a napkin on your back!” Maynard pops a yellow and a green Fruit Loop into his mouth.

  More.

  More.

  More.

  More.

  More whore Maynard.

  Roger goes down river. There’s always one of his old spots, which is pretty close. But that’s still too close to where Maynard is. Roger’ll taste the filth of Maynard.

  Further down.

  His stomach groans.

  The day is already a quarter over. What a waste.

  Roger squats down near the water and cups his hands to get a drink, then eats some Cheerios.

  This spot is pretty good. The grass is softer, and so far, there seems to be fewer insects. This spot is better. Maynard can have that second rate spot.

  This is better.

  The Cheerios are good, not even stale.

  Roger kicks back in the green grass and throws another small handful into his mouth.

  Maynard’s always trying to one-up everyone. How pathetic. Always trying to show his shit off. Always trying to be better than you.

  One time Roger was down at Dark Alley getting himself ready to fall asleep on a slightly used pillow he found that day when none other than Maynard came strolling into Dark Alley. It was way past quiet time and Maynard’s shopping cart was squeaking as he proudly pushed it. It was a brand new body pillow and a brand new heavy blue blanket that he wanted everyone to see. People looked up at him, but it wasn’t to see his shit. It was to glare at him as hard as their eyes could.

  He does stuff like this then when he wants to show off something that he just got recently. He’ll make a bunch of noise when people are trying to sleep just so they’ll glance up at him and his new whatever. Or he’ll go to your favorite spot near the river and wait for you.

  Everyone hates Maynard.

  Roger hates Maynard.

  Maynard tries too hard to be like them.

  He tries too hard to feel like them, to see like them, to want like them. No, to need like them.

  Maynard even tries to smell like them.

  Roger hasn’t bathed for almost two months now, or something like that. It’s been long enough to forget.

  Maynard bathes once a week. He even wears tree necklaces to smell fresh. Or he will have exotic cologne he’ll spray on himself just before going to annoy someone. Smelling good, how the hell does that help one survive? Jesus.

  Roger thinks he stinks. Roger thinks he smells like their shit, like the real filth of the world. Like hairspray, mattresses, televisions, diamonds, bottled water. Like lotion, roads, sunglasses, drapes, DVDs, CDs, fertilized lawns, public transport. Like the overgrown comfort zone of the good old US of A.

  Roger isn’t trying to be like them. Roger isn’t trying to have what they think is a good life. He’s trying to find something. Roger is trying to find an answer. Roger is trying to be free, but it’s so god damn hard when all he smells is this and Maynard.

  Chapter 3

  The hardest part of Roger’s life is finding things to fill his day. There’s the endless search for food, but that gets easy after a while. Like on Monday’s, there is always free stale bread in the alley behind Grocer Joe’s. And Tuesday’s, there is usually a nice amount of overripe fruit tossed out of some organic food store. And of course there is always the grille-out at Dark Alley on Wednesday nights, usually fish or some beef or something. Thursday’s are tough sometimes. But Friday, Saturday and Sunday’s are hay days. Roger can find anything he wants really; candy, burgers, pasta, fries, soups, cereal, pastries, anything. People throw so much stuff away on the weekends. Roger sort of considers it his job to clean up after all the ignorant, wasteful consumers. Think of those fish that are always going around sucking up the random crap that falls to the bottom of the tank. That’s Roger. Roger the bottom feeder, the algae eater, the fish who cleans the mess. The janitor, the custodian, the bottom feeding ring-link of the human food chain.

  They all see Roger as some vagabond-bum-nut who they consider as less than used toilet paper.

  Toilet paper? That’s exactly what’s wrong with this country. They’re pathetic slaves born into bondage and too scared to do anything about it. They’re so comfortable, so careful not to harm they’re ego, so fake happy, so igno
rant, so insipid, morbid, so much like one another, it pisses Roger off.

  He hates them. He hates Maynard. He hates how much they look down on him for what he does. He thinks what he does is heroic, if not saint-like. He doesn’t see them with the balls enough to be fearless and eat second, third, fourth-hand meals, and drink natural water from a river or from the rain, and not bathe for months at a time, and not know where you’re going to sleep that night, and not care about who has the better car or home or job or who’s better looking or who gets laid more or any of the frivolous shit.

  They’re all just a bunch of superficial idiots. Even that isn’t saying enough.

  They can all go to hell. And have Maynard be their guide.

  Yea…

  Yea.

  And from what it looks like, that might actually be more prophecy than insult.

  Chapter 4

  What is today? Tuesday?

  Right.

  Good. That means one more day until the Dark Alley grille-out. Roger’ll make sure not to eat a thing tomorrow, not until that night. For now, though, Roger finishes his Cheerios as he sits near the river. He watches the people parading around in all their fancy clothes, riding spiffy bikes, jogging with headphones jammed in their ears.

  He thinks of what might be going through their minds.

  ‘I look so strong with my muscles bouncing up and down. I hope that chick from work sees me and wants to do it.’

  ‘I’m so rich I could burn this three hundred dollar pair of jeans, but I can’t because I’m attached to material possessions. Plus, they make my butt look good.’

  ‘I wanna be the fastest cyclist in the world. People will ask me for my autograph or my picture or my smile or my life or my phone number. They’ll all worship me and know they can never be better than me.’

  Roger sees a guy with sunglasses catch a Frisbee.

  ‘I’m a dumb dog!’

  Fitting.

  Roger sees a lady walking a dog. Bitches walking bitches.

  Everything everywhere is so disgusting. The people, the careers, the buildings, the lifestyle, the smell…

  Wait, that smell.

  Maynard.

  “Damn it, Maynard, leave me alone.”

  “Easy, Roger, I’m just heading to a bathroom, alright?”

  Ugh, Maynard.

  Chapter 5

  It’s raining. And it’s Wednesday.

  Raining hard from heavy clouds that only seem to be getting heavier. The Dark Alley grille-out is most likely canceled.

  That’s fine. Maybe Roger won’t have to see Maynard. Maybe Maynard will get hit by a car or truck or taxi whose windshield wipers are dysfunctional.

  Wait, no, no, no, no. That’s not what Roger wants.

  Bad thought.

  Bad thought.

  No, Roger doesn’t want Maynard dead. Roger just wants Maynard to leave him alone. Roger just wants to be alone. Roger is searching for what cannot be found in or around other people, especially not around Maynard. What Roger is looking for is something inside of himself, something that cannot be seen, something that cannot be heard, something that cannot be touched, something that can only be felt from the inside.

  This something, though, is behind something else, hidden. Like a dark ominous brick wall. Black bricks with gray cement between. And Roger cannot get to his something without first breaking down this wall. Roger doesn’t even know what the hell it is exactly. All he knows is that it’s there and he needs it.

  It’s raining as hard as some guy who just took Viagra.

  Tonight, Roger is going to be alone. Tonight, Roger is going to the bridge to be alone. Hermit Bridge, he calls it, just south of the city. As soon as this rain lets up just a little, Roger’s out of here. How he stayed in the city for this long at one time without it getting to him very much until now, he’ll never know. All he does know is he needs a vacation.

  Just a day or two.

  Chapter 6

  Hermit Bridge is perfect for days like this. It’s a small bridge accommodating to no more than two people, not that Roger would ever think about bringing anyone out here. It’s surrounded by trees instead of the sound of cars, the smell of cars, the sound of people, the stench of people, and finally, and most of all, the sound and hellish stench of Maynard.

  A small creek trickles over the rocks right underneath of it. And the water is so clear, so serene, so mind-quieting, so natural it puts Roger to ease. The bridge is built out of handpicked, unique rocks, and used a very limited amount of cement.

  Simply something.

  This is Hermit Bridge.

  This is where Roger is hiding right now. The rain let up just enough and just long enough for Roger to make it to the cover of the bridge without getting too wet. He sits quietly eating a can of easy-open ravioli as the rain picks up again and pounds everything around. His fingers are the prongs of his fork. He can hear his gooey chewing of the lukewarm ravioli among the constant sounds of the heavy rain.

  Maynard will never find this place.

  No one knows about this place. Roger has heard a total of one car drive over this bridge, and he’s spent many days ducked away underneath of this lonely lovely bridge.

  Roger forks another slimy red ravioli into his mouth. It feebly bursts open so that the ground-overly-processed-meat oozes out.

  And for just a moment there’s nothing. No idea forming inside, no planning, nothing. There is only the boundless silence of something inside. Roger loses something during this brief moment, something like a burden.

  And then a car comes barreling over the bridge.

  The inside-silence leaves.

  God damn car.

  There is always something. Always someone or something that’s going to mess with Roger. Just when he’s about to get somewhere. Just when maybe one of those dark bricks was going to fall down. Just when he’s about to catch a glimpse of the feeling of what’s beyond that wall.

  God damn it.

  Roger eats the last ravioli and angrily chucks the can into the creek.

  No, no, no. Don’t get pissed at the quiet creek. It’s not the creek’s fault.

  Roger gets up and gets the can.

  It’s not the creek’s fault.

  It’s that car’s fault. It’s where the car came from and the people who brought it, that’s whose fault it is. It’s the people who make the thousands of cars each year and shove them down people’s throats. It’s whoever thought capitalism was a good idea. It’s marketing. It’s the going-no-where-wheel of misfortune.

  Roger sets the empty can down and tries to sleep. He tosses a few times, punches the ground out of frustration, then finally falls asleep.

  Chapter 7

  Roger awakes from the sunlight reflecting off of the water into his face.

  A bird chirps somewhere in the nearby trees. The water has risen a little because of the rain last night. You can’t see the tops of the rocks in the creek anymore.

  Roger listens to the chirping. He imagines a plain everyday bird singing as best it can. It sounds happy. It sounds natural.

  It’s time to get back to the filthy city. Roger feels that if he spends too long in this serene spot, in his favorite most secret most remote spot, someone will eventually find him and it and take it. Or tell him that he can’t be here anymore. Maybe they’d even threaten him with death if they ever see him again.

  Roger wouldn’t want to lose this spot.

  Anywhere but this spot.

  Anywhere.

  He picks up the empty can from last night and heads for the city. It’s about time Roger bathed.

  How long since the last?

  A month or two?

  Three?

  Something like that.

  It’s time to bathe. Roger noticed this yesterday. It’s getting bad if the food you eat even tastes dirty, beside the usual dumpster taste.

  If someone brought food from three different dumpsters and Roger had to taste them, he could probably tell which is from wher
e or at least make a good guess. Every dumpster has its own unique flavor to it. Roger likes to see it as some sort of secret spices or secret ingredients or something like that.

  It’s time to bathe, though, it’s time to get less dirty.

  To clean up, Roger needs soap. Soap is always a little bit harder to find than most all of the other essentials like food and water and shelter. Soap is the only thing Roger uses to groom himself. He uses body soap for everything he has; his body and the clothes on it. It’s the only set of clothing Roger has. He usually washes everything together.

  Consolidate. Moderate.

  Not like Maynard. Maynard has at least three of every article of clothing, except shoes. Maynard only has two pairs of shoes, much to his disappoint which was expressed annoyingly to Roger one day.

  Two pairs of shoes. And he thinks that’s not enough?

  Maynard isn’t a six-legged beast, so he doesn’t need six shoes. Even if he was a six legged beast, he probably wouldn’t know what shoes are.

  Just soap for Roger. No deodorant, no hair-spray, no cologne, none of that vanity stuff.

  Definitely no razors. Why cut that which grows naturally?

  Maynard shaves, thinks he’s the shit. He’s always trying to hit on this lady named Thelma who’s usually at the Dark Alley grille-out. She’s not very tall and is probably the closest thing there is to a good-looking bum woman. She hates when Maynard hits on her. She hates him. Maynard’ll even rub some of his exotic cologne that he sometimes wears all over himself before he comes. He’ll strut into Dark Alley smelling like a real dip-shit and walk right over to Thelma.

  What a dumb-ass. A god damn half-ass dumb-ass.

  Just let it go already.

  Roger’s let go. He’s stripped it down to the bare essentials.

  Just fucking let go already.

  Food, water and shelter. And soap.

  That’s it.

  The best place to find free soap is Save-Mart. They always have those free samples of the new products. Roger usually just grabs five or six samples depending on how bad he needs them.