Spike

By Jason Coughlin

He picked his teeth with the orange cellophane fringed toothpick and flung the stub of his salami hero in the trash. As he walked home, Frank caught a whiff of himself. BLECK! He smelled like garbage. It oozed from his skin. Frank worked for Greenhorn Waste.

His apartment was below the video store on Main. All the furniture in his one room abode had been culled from piles left by the side of the road. Today he carried home a shiny, but chipped red metal chair. One leg was slightly bent, but he figured he could bend it straight or prop it up somehow.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Frank slapped the alarm with his fist. 3:30 a.m. Time to go to work. Frank burped and inadvertently horked up beer, bile and some unclassifiable solids. He threw back some stale milk straight from the carton and lumbered off to work.

Frank picked up the North route. It ran near the industrial outskirts of town. There was lots of messy heavy lifting. Last week he tossed some cans and battery acid or some other nasty shit splashed on his pant leg. By the end of the route it had burned his left leg raw.

He acknowledged that this was all payback for making that liar Johnny Sax eat his teeth. Johnny Sax had an in at the office. Her name was Carol. She waddled her fat ass up the office stair every morning, shuffled papers, answered phones and sucked Johnny’s dick. So when Johnny and Frank came to blows, Frank got transferred to the North route. Frank didn’t complain. He relished making that loser yelp like a pup. As he rattled down Commerce clinging to the back of the truck, hung-over and cold… He smiled.

“Frankie! Frankie come home its dinner time!”

“Alright Mom.!”

Huffing Frank took his place at the dinner table next to his father and mother. Across the table was his sister Jamie, brother Zack.

“Wash your hands this instant young man.” His mother quipped.

Jamie giggled. Frank got up and pulled the step-stool in front of the kitchen sink. He reached for the soap and scrubbed his hands. Then he dried them on the dish towel. Utensils clattered, chewing ensued. Frank reached for the bread and tipped over his glass of milk with his elbow. His father snapped.

“You did it again you good for nothin! Clean that up right now! That’s the last time you’re gonna get milk. If you want any you’ll have to lick it up!”

Silence.

Blubbering, Frank got up grabbed the dish towel and wiped up the milk. He cleaned the rest with paper towels and returned to his chair. Frank’s mother looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. Frank’s father chuckled to himself, glowing with the power he wielded.

“You know what kid, why don’t you have some of my beer instead.”

“Don’t you dare!” his mother yelled back.

“Why not?” he smiled, leaned over and spat into Frank’s ear. “Maybe it’ll put hair on the little brat’s chest.”

The children’s heads were all down in their plates. A tear dripped down Frank’s cheek. He got up and ran into his bedroom.

Frank had to work the yard today. Hector called in sick, so someone had to take his place. Frank had the un-envious duty of keeping the walkway, stairs and platform around the trommel clear. The trommel was a giant spinning metal barrel with holes that screened out debris from larger chunks of metal that would eventually be shipped for recycling. The equipment was deafeningly loud. It stank like hell even in the coldest part of winter.

Frank methodically scrapped his shovel along the catwalk. To keep the dust down, he occasionally picked up the fire hose and watered down the various piles of muck. Swarming seagulls blocked out the sun. It didn’t matter. No trees grew on this landscape. All day long the garbage came, truck after truck. And Frank scrapped and sprayed.

The work was draining. His senses were getting a good flogging. One wrong step and he could be on the pile, crushed by heavy equipment on beamed by flying debris.

Lunch time came. He picked a concrete barricade to rest his bones and brain. He watched the sea gulls mill about in the water around the clogged catch basin. This distracted his mind for awhile, but then the surrounding miasma started to creep into his consciousness. These sea gulls lived in shit. And so did he.

Tony the foreman peeked his head out the office door and whistled for him to go back to work. Frank retied his bootlaces and marched back to the yard. When he got back to his station, he casually lifted his shovel and spun it with all his might at an unsuspecting sea gull. He swung so hard, the spade broke off and twirled through the air halfway across the yard. Flush with rage, Frank looked up as the front end loader scooped it up and poured it onto a pile. With the handle still in his hand, he kicked the dead bird out of his way as he resigned to get another shovel out from the tool shed.

Frank leaped onto the bar stool.

“Fetch me a pitcher Billy will ya!”

“Chill out Frank. I just changed out the keg, so you’re gonna have to wait a bit.” Billy wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his tattoo covered forearm and rubbed his hands on the dish rag.

Friday. Let the games begin. Three shots of whiskey, seven beers and a hamburger later, Frank got off his stool and stumbled to the pisser.

“Burp!”

Occupied.

He rattled the door knob anyway for good measure, as if that would make a difference. He looked to his left, watched the smoke enshrouded people playing pool then casually walked to the right and out the back door.

The stars sparkled in the cool clear sky. He wavered, swayed, until he was finally able to pull himself out of his trousers. There was a shuffling noise and the rolling sound of a shopping cart to his right. A homeless man leaned over into a dumpster.

“Find anything good in there?” Frank asked.

The man kept poking around.

“Hey! I’m talking to you old man!”

Irritated and full of beer muscles, Frank walked over and tipped the cart over. The man turned ‘round with a cold stare. Like when someone sees a ghost, a chill ran up Frank’s spine. He could of sworn it was his father.

Frank pulled the key from the dead-bolt, turned and trudged up his stairs to the street. He wore his hooded sweatshirt, kept his head down, focusing on the patch of sidewalk in front of his feet. He pulled his head up and turned only to look in the delicatessen as he passed.

Stacey might be working there tonight. Stacey talked to him. It was part of her job. If the owner wasn’t there, she’d make his sandwiches or coffee and give him his change. She was winsome even with her dirty apron, beer gut and crooked teeth. Frank liked her. She had a full bosom, smiled and never gave him any shit. It wasn’t in him to proposition her. His tenacious world might come crashing down. As it was he only spoke out of necessity.  She’d probably laugh it off as a joke and he’d never be able to show his face in there again.

She wasn’t behind the counter.

He rounded the corner and walked the mile pilgrimage to the outskirts of town known as “kitty korner”. There were no street lights or bus stop in this part of town. Not even a sign. You either knew about this place or you didn’t. One time a misguided born again with too much time on his hands picketed the intersection with a sign-“YOU’RE ALL GOING TO HELL”. Well, he got beat real bad. Welcome to hell, dude.

The bouncer blew cigar smoke out his nostrils and smiled as he took Frank’s money, the cigar held between his teeth. The sound system’s bass pounded against the door. When he opened it, out poured the song “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Frank eyed the big titted barmaid with malicious intent. There was a two drink minimum, but Frank diffused the cost by downing a few shots of whiskey before he left his apartment. He ordered his $12 beer and watched the torsos bump and grind around the poles on the stage.

None of the women who worked the floor for lap dances went near him. They couldn’t stand him. Frank would have to get up and order the bouncer to bring him over a girl.

“I want the brunette with the tattoo on her ass!” he growled over the music.

“You got it.” the other bouncer replied and requested the girl’s participation.

She performed most of her act with her back to him, looking the other way, recoiling under his clammy hands. She turned, put her knee between his legs and pulled his hair.

“Hey watch it.” He said.

She sat on top of him and waited for the longest song in the world to end. Two more girls and a few drinks later, Frank stumbled home. When he got to his door he fished for his keys, cursed and kicked the door. He couldn’t find his wallet.

The graffiti sprayed walls guided him to a four story brownstone. He went inside and up to a third floor apartment. There was a wash basin on a table in the middle of the otherwise empty room. Frank washed his hands and entered the bedroom. In it was a baby crying in a crib. He walked over and gently picked the baby up. The baby looked very familiar. Slowly its crying subsided. It looked up at him and smiled.

Frank awoke in a cold sweat. He couldn’t shake the dream from his mind as he got ready for work. When he left his apartment he was startled by a dog that was curled up in the corner of the stairwell. It was a midsized dog, grey with a white tipped tail.

“Get out of there!” Frank yelled.

The dog shivered, curled in its tail and placed its snout under a paw.

“Come on. Get! Aww I ain’t got time for this.” Frank slammed the door and took off to work.

When he returned home sleep deprived and cranky, the dog was still there. It must be hurt, he thought to himself. Its tail twitched and it curled up into the corner as Frank descended the stairs. Frank pretended he didn’t see the dog and quickly slipped into the apartment.

After a long nap on the couch he turned on the t.v., heated some beans out of a can and grabbed a few slices of white bread. A quarter of the way through the local news, the dog started to whine periodically.

“Shut up!” Frank answered back.

The dog would be quiet for a bit, then start up again. Finally Frank got up and threw out a slice of bread and quickly shut the door.

“Keep it down, will ya !”

That night Frank had trouble falling asleep. His ears were on alert to detect any sounds that might reveal activity beyond his door. Was that a scratching sound or a bark? Each time he thought he heard a noise he would wait for another. What was that? A  faucet drip?  The clock ticking on the wall?

Groggy, Frank got up and got ready for work. Slowly he turned the knob to his front door. The dog was gone.

Frank returned home from work that day, six pack under his arm. He turned on the t.v. There was a commercial for dandruff shampoo. He plopped a frozen pizza into the toaster oven. Fifteen minutes into the news there was that dog again whining outside his door. Frank got up, opened the door to throw out his crust. The dog was sitting up. It caught the crust in mid air and retreated to the corner of the stairwell.

This routine continued for a week. The dog would never go for the food until Frank threw it. Frank began to enjoy these brief, jocund exchanges. Then one night Frank put the scraps in a bowl, opened the door, waved the bowl a little for the dog to see, then placed it on the floor inside the apartment. The dog looked at him. Silence.

“Come on.” Frank cajoled. “Come on.” He patted his thigh.

The dog looked at the bowl, blinking his eyes. He looked back up at Frank. More silence.

“Come on.” Frank urged. “Eat.”

The Dog’s tail twitched. Its whole body tensed up and with great difficulty it let out a modest …

“woof.”

“What?” Frank took a step back, a bit surprised.

“Woof woof.”

Silence.

The dog looked up at Frank crunched his brow and tried to telepathically make Frank put the food outside. He sure was hungry.

He grew up in a litter of six. He had two sisters and three brothers. His parents mated one hot summer night in August. His father Smokey could not contain his animal urges and managed to dig his way under a fence. The love making woke his mother Bessy’s owners and Smokey barely escaped the rock throwing of the owner.

He was chosen by a loud little boy named Davie that picked him up and tucked him under his shirt. After two fun filled years, they moved. For some unexplainable reason he ran away and tried to find his original home. For two weeks he wandered. He survived on road kill garbage and rain water. He made steady progress but his internal compass was whacked out of sync when he got hit by a car backing out of a hidden driveway.

Battered and scarred he found refuge in a storefront cellar stairway. He froze in fear that first time Frank opened the door and yelled at him. He was cornered and wounded. The man smelled of anger. His body hurt so much he laid there the whole day.

Where is the little boy Davie and his parents? The joyous little life of mine is gone. Will I ever find them? He moaned that night and the man threw him a piece of bread. From a distance the next night, he watched the man return home with a brown bag under his arm. Often Davies parents brought home many bags like that and they contained food! But he was afraid. Afraid but more alert. The man went inside and with him the brown bag. Oh the agony.

He decided to lunge for the food. He inhaled it quickly.

“That a boy.”

Frank left the door open and sat back on the couch. He had a bag of pretzels on the coffee table. He picked up the bag and tossed a few on the floor. The dog devoured them one after another moving closer and closer to the couch. Then Frank reached out and offered the dog a pretzel. The dog froze for a moment then barked. Frank tossed the pretzel up in the air and the dog waited for it to hit the floor before scooping it up. His body still ached and he welcomed the nourishment.

Frank smiled at the dog like an old friend. When all the pretzels were gone the dog began to sniff around the room. Here and there he licked up a stale crumb or morsel. Frank leaned down and offered the dog his hand. Hesitant, the dog sniffed and sniffed. Fury was gone.

“Hey Spike come here. I always thought that would be a cool name for a dog.”