Asses Out

Two cops talk over a dead guy.

Sergeant George Almeida opened the door and stepped out of his squad car onto the sidewalk. A woman in dirty clothes and clean Nikes stepped from the alley and across the pavement and into the gutter to give him the news.

“He’s over there. Hasn’t moved, not once.”

Toaster was there too, spotlighted by a streetlight, arguing with the thin air. Toaster. No one could say where the name came from or what given name it had replaced. Not that they asked. No one who ever heard the name had need for another one. He maybe only had a name at all because you can’t call a guy Nothing.

“Ain’t nobody said nuthin’ ‘bout the devil!”

“Hey Toaster.” Almeida said, taking an observatory position above the body. The woman stood by, delivering the rundown. Almeida listened to what she had to say though she had nothing to say that he couldn’t know just by being there now. A man laying in the street, not moving, never moving, not once.

He took the scene in from the bottom up. First, basketball shoes, the Hottest New Release six or seven years ago, officially Beat to Shit as of two years ago, untied and loosely laced, the right hanging off the end of its foot to reveal a white, splotched Wilson athletic sock. Then black sweatpants, lightened by a patina of dirt, torn at all the bendy places. Then a hoodie, original color unknown, now black. Then a face, bloated and grey and laminated by stands of fragile, damp hair.

“Second this week.” Colfax was there with a blanket in his hands.

“I’ll tell you who the real heroes are! The first responders!” Toaster gave no sign of finding common ground with himself or his immediate surroundings.

“I’ll call in an ambulance.” Almeida unclipped the walkie-talkie from his shoulder.

“Don’t see why we always tie up an ambulance for the dead guys. Just call the hearse, I say. Shit, get a city fleet of hearses.”

“I guess it’s because that’d feel like we’re giving up on people. Gotta give them a chance. Maybe they get a miracle.”

“Yea but an ambulance ride costs like 10,000 bucks. Biggest check we ever write for these people in their lives and it’s to uphold the illusion that we actually give a fuck.”

“Uphold the illusion we can do a damn thing about this shit, more like.”

“Just like fuckin’ a cactus!”

Colfax laid the blanket over the guy.

“You believe in destiny? I used to, but shit like this makes you think.”

“Sure, I believe in destiny.”

“Seeing poor sons-of-bitches dead in the street doesn’t make you question that?”

“Nah. I just think sometimes it’s your destiny to be a poor son-of-a-bitch who dies in the street. There’s nothing that says destiny’s gotta be meaningful.”

“Good Lord, that’s grim.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

They stood with their arms crossed in the morning cold, watching the ambulance creep down the street towards them. No siren, no hurry.

“Show me that big ol’ dick you got!” Toaster opened up a new line of discussion.

“What makes a guy look homeless?” If someone else was talking, Colfax was talking too.

“Addiction, the cycle of poverty, mental illness, societal negligence…”

“No but they always have this style. Like, always basketball shoes. Always sweatpants, always a hoodie.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Probably just those are the clothes people get rid of.”

“Or maybe it’s to fit in. Like so they don’t get picked on by the cool homeless guys.”

“Maybe that’s why there’s so much stigma around sweats. We’re all just one dirty pair away from the streets.”

“I wear sweatpants. Do I look homeless?”

“Yea man.”

Colfax took the hint to talk to someone else for a fucking minute. He turned to Toaster.

“Hey Toaster, this guy got a name?”

“The good lord Jesus Christ!”

Colfax nodded and pretended to write it down. Then, a few silent minutes later:

“Yo, that guy’s ass is out.”

“Yea you’re gonna see some asses hanging out down here.”

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