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  The closest Save-Mart from here is the one on 51st and Franklin. Roger went to this one last time. It’s his least favorite out of all the Save-Mart’s because this is a Super Save-Mart. The only super thing about this place is that it’s huge. That’s the problem, though, everything needs to be bigger, bigger, bigger, more, more, more, complicate, complicate, complicate. Super homes, super hummers, super stadiums, super egos, TV shows, gizmo’s, super boats, coats, superstars, super bars, super sweet, super eat, super size to highs so low that the only road left is a super death. Extinction.

  It makes Roger sick. Physically sick. Vomiting sick.

  So Roger learned to eat shortly before going in to get soap. He learned this a while ago. Roger found that if he eats before going into Save-Mart he’ll barf. The first time it happened Roger just barfed on the floor. That’s a huge waste of food, just hitting the floor like that.

  Now though, Roger makes it a point to barf on something. One time Roger made it to one of those five dollar DVD clearance bins. He ate a lot of spinach and bread that day. Rye bread.

  Sometimes the cops come, sometimes not. Roger doesn’t give a shit either way as long as he gets his soap. When they do come they just kick him out. He has to be quick these days though. It’s getting harder to puke on anything expensive anymore.

  The office furniture was one of his best accomplishments. He was trying to get to the electronic section but got too queasy before he could get there.

  Premature puking.

  It’s tough to hold it down when the blue shirts are closing in quick.

  Lately, Roger’s just been going in, grabbing soap and getting out. There’s not much time anymore. At best he’ll just spit on a few items along the way. Even getting to the soap section is becoming a task.

  Blue shirts and yellow smileys.

  Save-Mart; savings on everything but souls.

  That’s where Maynard’s shopping cart came from.

  Ugh, Maynard.

  Roger hasn’t seen Maynard yet today. Surprising, this is his neighborhood.

  What a joke. Roger remembers when he heard someone say that Maynard actually applied at Super Save-Mart. Said he applied at the gardening section. That way, because he is always dirty, people would just think he’s a really hard worker.

  He actually wrote that on the application under the ‘Tell us about yourself’ section. He left most everything else blank.

  Jesus Christ, let go. A bum who wants a job, but still wants to be a bum?

  Let it go.

  This time at Save-Mart there’s no cops. They didn’t even notice Roger come in, except for the nearly deaf, blind ready-to-die old guy door greeter who can’t even stand up straight.

  He breathed something of a ‘hi’. Or maybe he was just wheezing. Sometimes you just can’t tell.

  There’s not a whole lot of expensive merchandise on the way to the soap aisle. Roger doesn’t have anything to puke up anyway. He does have a few good snot loogies to hock up though. And there’s always the cosmetic aisle just a few rows beyond the soap. Roger has spit on or puked on make-up so much now that it’s really more of an obligation than an enjoyed hobby.

  He does it anyway, out of spite. Spit spite.

  There’s only four free samples for Roger to take and they’re woman’s scented shampoo. God, scented.

  Super Save-Mart, Super shit-hole Save-mart.

  Chad must not be working today. Surprising, he works everyday. That’s probably why the Save-Mart employees haven’t caught on to Roger’s presence. Good thing.

  Chad is this clean cut, gelled hair, ironed pants, moisturized skin, fake bastard who carries one of those walkie-talkies everywhere he goes. He carries it like he’s in the army, like he’s calling for backup, like he’s calling in to pinpoint an air-strike, like he’s doing something for his country.

  Save-Mart country.

  And Chad’s the Captain of the Super Save-Mart Army. He’s always been at the head of the pack when they’re chasing Roger out.

  ‘Stay out of here you bum! You’re bad for business!’ Roger remembers Capt. Chad saying once. Roger just flipped him off as he walked out.

  This place stinks. That’s what makes Roger puke when he’s inhere. He’s not smelling the stink with his nose, it’s his soul that’s smells it.

  Soul Pollution.

  Roger might stink like shit and trash, but at least he’s got a clean soul.

  Save-Mart represents the comfortable decay of humanity apart from nature.

  For god’s sake, it’s all fucked, anyway. Every last bit of this man-made world. Forests are obliterated in mere days where it took years for them to grow. Oil is burned at twenty miles to the gallon in mere minutes where it took ages to form. And to drive where? McDonald’s, Burger King, Lowe’s, Target, Save-Mart. To buy what? Processed foods, over-packaged-for-flash trash that ends up in a god damn dumpster, which is loaded into a dump truck, powered by fossil fuel, to be taken to a landfill.

  “Thank you for shopping at Save-Mart.” The intercom says.

  Hell is relative.

  Hell is fucking relative.

  Chapter 8

  The river is where Roger bathes. This is where Roger is now. The river is the only sane place in the city. But that’s even saying too much. Most of it is surrounded by a city park with mown grass, imported trees, picnic tables and basketball courts. There’s even a hard, unnatural bike trail that goes along with the river at some parts. Huge concrete, manmade bridges span across it like stitches on a cut.

  Maybe it’s better to say that it is the least insane part of the city.

  Four packs of sample soap is not enough to clean his entire body, so he starts with the problem areas; crotch, beard, hair, pits. He had this dilemma before and learned. The last pack is going to be saved for his clothes. They sit on the bank, everything but his underwear which he is wearing at the moment.

  Roger used to be a little hesitant to bathe outside. Not anymore.

  Now he doesn’t a give a shit. People stare at his pale hairy body with disgust. Roger stares back at their prim new age haircuts and their wannabe-famous-and-sex -all-the-time pants. He stares with true disgust. More true than their base opinions. How can someone say what something looks like without their eyes being open? The eyes of their soul. How can you have an opinion if you haven’t a mind of your own?

  Roger is proud if his body. It shows how much he’s accomplished. It reflects how far he’s gotten away from habitual eating, cleansing and presenting. It shows his mind in the rawest way. It shows most of all that he is not like them, of them, near them and he does not fear like them.

  Roger scrubs his balls as a lady with a stroller passes by. She covers the baby’s eyes.

  Like that’ll help.

  Chapter 9

  What day is it?

  Thursday?

  Right. Thursday means it’s time to find some food. Thursday means Roger should’ve started looking for something to eat a while ago. Roger’s gone without food for 3 days at the most, so isn’t a problem. He’s just hungry.

  Sometimes one of the mission stores will give out free day-old bread. Whole loaves for free. This is common knowledge to all the bums, though. It rarely lasts for any longer than a few hours.

  Roger looks up at the bright sun. It hasn’t reached its’ peak yet, but it’s nearly there

  There’s time. It’s probably getting close to noon, which means heavy traffic.

  Time to hurry.

  Roger dresses himself after his half-ass bathing. He didn’t even make it to smelling nice or okay or like nothing. At best he smells a little less bad.

  Clean, though. And that’s what matters.

  Ten minutes into walking to the mission store Roger is smacked in the face with a half-eaten burger. Some prick in the backseat of a black car decided he didn’t want to finish his meal.

  There’s ketchup and mustard all over Roger and a pickle sliding down the front of his shirt.

  God damn it, Roger
just finished bathing. And now some self-conscious-over-eating bastard just threw his sixth burger out of the window at some bum, just so his friends would quit laughing at him for being such a pansy for not finishing his sixth measly burger. They all ate at least seven or eight.

  Roger stares down at the half burger.

  Disgusting. A chomped onion sticks out of the mangled bun mess.

  Roger is hungry though. And it is his job to clean the bottom of the tank, even if it’s for goldfish pricks like them.

  He wipes the ketchup and mustard from his face with his hand and flicks it on the sidewalk then picks up the burger and eats it.

  Roger curses everything wrong and unholy about the whole situation. The pricks, the bath, the ketchup, the artificial food, the cars honking, the people staring.

  Staring.

  Staring.

  Staring.

  Roger’s anger grows faster than a mushroom from cow shit.

  “You think I’m crazy?! You think I’m fucking crazy? Ha! Take a look at yourselves! Christ! I’ve shit more noble things than what you all call yourselves!”

  Now everyone walking around Roger changes from staring to ignoring and avoiding. Everyone’s head is down or turned or whatever. Some people even turn around and start walking the other way. That’s just what they are supposed to do, ignore the truth.

  “God damn it! I know you can hear me! Or are you as deaf as you are dumb?”

  A man in a suit and on his cell phone walks by.

  “Go to your fucking desk job!” Roger screams. “Go tell your secretary to blow you or lose her job. Tell her that’s the only way to advance in this dog eat dog business. Jesus, or are you a politician? Ah fuck it, you’re all the same. Each and every one of you is just as pathetic as the next! All of your minds malformed, malnourished, designed to perform tricks on command when there’s some sort of reward for it.”

  “Shut the hell up, you bum. Go smoke your god damn last couple of brain cells to death.” A passerby says, an older man with a gray mustache and a balding head. He has a silk suit and fancy, edgy glasses on.

  “Oh I bet you’re the politician, aren’t you? The last guy was just a small flashy cheap chump. You’re the big chump, huh?” Roger is yelling louder now that the older man is farther away. “Go bang your wife’s sister, you crooked bastard! Vote yes on the end of humanity!”

  Chapter 10

  Roger didn’t make it to the bread. A bike cop came by and told him to move along. The bike cop had bike cop shorts on, a bike cop helmet, a bike cop badge, bike cop shades, bike cop calves and a bike cop haircut.

  Roger exchanged words with him, too. Why not?

  If Roger wasn’t a bum he would probably be in jail for public disturbance. Cops don’t want to arrest bums because they think that’s just what the bums want; free meals and free shelter. For the most part, cops think it’s a waste of tax payer money. Taxes, ugh, Roger isn’t even going to start on that.

  The bike cop wrestled words with him for a bit, tried to push him along, then said Roger stank like trash. The bike cop told him to go shower.

  Roger fucking bathed already today. He told him that.

  “Yea, okay, pal.”

  God damn bike cop.

  Roger lost his appetite after that. And he already got enough food for the day, or at least a while.

  Now Roger has nothing to do, no place to be, definitely no one to see. He feels like he should be free right now, but he can’t get that damn bike cop out of his mind.

  Maybe the river.

  He was just there, but there’s nothing else to do, no where else to go. The river is Roger’s fall back plan for passing time. It never closes, that’s one of the best reasons for going there, for being there.

  To the river.

  Again.

  Chapter 11

  Maynard is right where Roger wants to be when he gets to the river. Roger tries to avoid the weak eyes of this so called bum. Roger hasn’t the patience to deal with Maynard right now, not after that whole incident.

  Too late. Too god damn late. Maynard sees Roger coming. He always sees him coming. It’s like he has a nose for sniffing out someone he can annoy.

  “Well if it isn’t Roger? Didn’t I see you wearing those same clothes last month?”

  “Piss off, Maynard. I’m just passing through, alright?”

  “Hey I got something new today. Two things, actually. There was a buy one get one free sale going on at my favorite thrift store.”

  “Good for you, Maynard.” Roger is trying to walk away. Maynard grabs his Save-Mart shopping cart and buggies up next to Roger. This guy can never take a hint.

  “Hey, you wanna see them?”

  “No, I’m going somewhere.”

  “Where you going?” One of the shopping cart wheels is wobble-squeaking.

  It’s bugging the piss out of Roger. His mind plays with the idea of breaking it.

  “Somewhere where you can’t be.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Men’s room.”

  “Hey Rog, don’t get so bent up, okay? You’ll kill yourself getting so angry.”

  No, not himself, maybe someone else though. No, no, bad thoughts.

  “Piss off, Maynard. Leave me alone.”

  “You know what? I think you would really like my new shirts. You might even get a little jealous.”

  “Jealous? Of your shit?” Roger takes a deep breathe getting ready to unload a tirade on Maynard, but finds no energy nor the will to do so. Instead he sighs heavily.

  “Yep, that’s how good they are.” Maynard smiles his pearly yellows. That god damn wheel is skipping and squeaking all over hell.

  “Just piss off.”

  Maynard digs in his cart full of stuff and pulls out a shirt. It’s ugly, it’s brown, it’s too small, too dumb and has holes in it. There’s nothing good or practical about this piece of shit shirt.

  “Do you like it?”

  “No.” Roger keeps walking faster and faster which is making Maynard walk faster which means pushing the cart faster which means that wheel is squeaking more and more.

  “Well I didn’t at first either, it isn’t in the best condition, right? And it’s pretty small. But,” Maynard balls it up and sticks it in Roger’s face, “smell it, though.”

  Roger pulls away right away. “I’m not smelling your shirt.”

  “I’ll keep walking with you then.”

  They walk for a while, Maynard flaring his nostrils to deeply smell the shirt. Roger flaring his nostrils in frustrated hatred.

  They keep walking.

  Roger turns.

  Maynard turns.

  They don’t say anything to each other. Maynard has a smile on his face that would make a baby cry.

  A few minutes pass.

  “Are you gunna fix that fucking wheel?! God damn it!”

  Maynard jumps a bit from this outburst. He stops walking, looks at the wheel, pushes it back and forth once. It squeaks.

  “I kind of like it.” Then he catches back up.

  “Gimme the god damn T-shirt.” Roger stops and puts his hand out. It’s shaking a little.

  Maynard hands it over. Roger smells it fast and throws it back at Maynard.

  “I don’t smell a damn thing.”

  “No, no, no, that’s because you did it wrong. Like this.” Maynard smells it deeply. “Ahh.”

  “I tried already.”

  “But you did it wrong.”

  Roger does just like Maynard did. And there it is. The smell. Roger forgets just for a second where he is and who he’s with. It’s wonderful, the smell, like roses with the ocean, the wind, the back round bright and warm. There’s a hint of beautiful woman, too. The smell of a loving, honest, beautiful wife. Roger loves it and wants to smell it again, but he cant. He just remembered Maynard standing right there.

  Roger opens his eyes and looks at Maynard.

  “And?”

  “It’ okay. Now leave me alone.” Roger starts w
alking again, stomping almost. He throws the shirt back at Maynard’s face as he goes.

  “Wait, wait, hang on.”

  “Leave me alone, Maynard.”

  “But you haven’t seen the other shirt, yet. It’s just as good as this one, if not better.”

  “No, Maynard.”

  Maynard catches up again by jogging a little. “I’ll tell you what, you check out my other shirt and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

  Roger stops, looks with cursing eyes at Maynard

  “Honest, I will.” Maynard holds up his hand like a boy scout or something.

  “Don’t mess with me right now, Maynard.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I swear.”

  Roger thinks it over for a few seconds. This better work.

  “Fine.”

  Maynard grins, sort of child-like and pulls out the other shirt. The base color is black, black, black. There’s no logo on the back, just straight black. Nothing else to it.

  “That’s it? It’s black.” Roger is wondering why he made this stupid deal. He should have just ran. He could probably get away without Maynard keeping up, shopping cart and all.

  “Oh no, no, no!!Not just black!” Maynard flips the shirt around to the front. There, in fancy yellow cursive letters, is a name.

  It says Maynard, with fancy tails on the M and the D.

  Roger starts walking away, more angry than before.

  “Hey wait! Don’t you like it?”

  Roger keeps walking. He hears Maynard’s feet shuffle and his shopping cart wheel squeak.

  That damn wheel.

  “Leave me alone, Maynard.”

  “But you didn’t say anything about it.” His voice sounds hurt.

  “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No, I hate it.”

  Maynard stops like he’s just been turned into stone, like a boy who was just told his favorite toy is actually a doll that only prissy little girls who dream of being a super model play with.