THE DOG HUNTERS (completed)

9 - NO FRIENDS

I've got no means, and no value. I've been told by those in the know that if I had friends I could start building these things. But there you go. I was never interested in friends when I was a regular person, except to have on hand to prove I wasn't Johnny Bobo. I never thought it about beyond that. Maybe one of the good things about Skid Row is it's normal not to have friends. When you're broke all the time you're always on the hustle, always trying to take, and since that's all about you, then at the end of the day it's never about them.

Clarity.

The first three pulls of vodka brought it all back, death, doom, all of it. And the SRC nodded his head, happy to have more juice. And having done this enough I knew the clarity and the warmth and delight that accompany a pint of Blue Nuts wouldll last approximately eighty minutes, as long as I keep adding fuel to the fire. After that I'd puke or pass out. Usually both.

So eighty minutes to get it done, to kill my worthless self. I scuttled down the Seventh, trying to figure the best place to make my dash and die. And then I thought it would be fun to say goodbye to LaLa Forgiveness, this whore I'd been on and off (drunk and sober) obsessed with for about a year. Herstroll was on Seventh, between City and Station, the area I was passing through, and I was suddenly seeing her so hard in my brain I was convinced she must be close by I hooked a right, and ducked left into an alley behind a Chinese fishwarehouse, I knew she liked to smoke crack in. Sure enough LaLa wasthere, on her knees, working on some kid in a wheel chair, who lookedup and recognized me through his Coke bottle glasses, saying,"Bogart."

Asdangerous as it is I spend a lot time on the streets. The danger ofthe streets is often more acceptable than the crazy that comes fromhanging out by yourself in your coffin-sized room. Which is all tosay, you know people and they know you. People know me as Mustache -I don't have one, but my last name is Mustaffo. Bogart is my firstname, and the only people who know that are professionals, as insocial workers, and that shit is supposed to be confidential.

Hearingsomeone – a stranger – use my first made me think maybe mybusiness was way more opened up than I thought. No good. Proof thatmy life was completely out of control, and all the more reason tocheck the fuck out.

"It'scool, Bogart," the kid was saying. Looked like someone had shavedhis head with a butter knife. One of the front wheels of his chairwas missing. "You got anything? I could get you something tomorrow.You know I'm good for it, gonna go to Walgreens."

TheWalgreens booster. Oh, wait - I did know him. Booze can give youclarity, but only by making you stupid. I used to run misdirectionfor this kid at the Walgreens on Forrest. He'd be down one aisleboosting into the backpack he kept on the back of his chair, and I'dbe wandering into things, knocking shit over on another aisle,drawing all the staff attention. Humiliating work, and about all I'mcapable of.

Thishad been about six months ago when I'd tried to give in, join thehustle. Like everything else in my life, I'd failed miserably, andalmost been arrested. During that stint had I started telling peoplemy first name? Probably. "Kid, I got nothing, and I'd give you someof this but I know you don't like it."

Flashingthe bottle and then hiding it under my raincoat again.

 Thekid squinted through the thick, harsh sunlight and without sayinggoodbye, rolled off. Crackheads are like that. Super-focused.