Gay Mike rented a room out of some old Victorian home on Main Street. The old woman, who owned the house, was a super model back in the 1970s and was pretty hot too — but that was in another lifetime and now she looks like Earthworm Jim. You know that worm mother fucker from the Sega Genesis game? Yeah she kind of looked like him if he was laid out in the sun for a day or two. She was introduced to meth to stay skinny and she never got off of it, so she was prone to losing her shit and ending up in the drunk tank for the night or the weekend depending on how bat-shit she got.
The other room next to Gay Mike’s was Grandpa’s. Grandpa was the neighborhood drunk who somehow managed to save some of his welfare to pay the fifty a week for the room; he would drink himself to oblivion nightly and pass out in the door way covered in his own piss and vomit. He was an alright guy. We would pay him in bottles of Old English for buying us booze at the corner liquor store and only once or twice did he try chugging the cans of Natural Ice on the ride home. Whenever the old model would act up smashing windows or trying to light herself on fire, Mike or Grandpa would hide their drugs and the cops would come in and lock her up. We would then fill the old Victorian wall-to-wall and party a hundred deep until the place was trashed and there were fluids, empty cans, and baggies all over the place.
Sometimes Mike would call the police even when she wasn’t crazy.
They would barge in, lock her up and we’d be free to party.
We’d be drinking and drugging and screaming and fucking and fighting until the drugs and drink ran out, then we’d pick up ourselves off of the floors and drag ourselves out into the Keyport streets. One night they dragged her off again — I was on the couch drinking a beer and smoking a joint with a couple of derelicts who bounced from party to party until the cops would lock them up from missed child support — Dante was one of the goons we bounced around the streets with and he was there, but he really wasn’t. See, Dante was not longer Dante because Dante became Tarah. And he was standing there six foot tall, big, black, and wearing a pink dress.
Grandpa had a bag on and was looking her over. The next thing we knew, his armed were wrapped around her and they were making out. His old feeble hands started to wander; Tarah adjusted her wig and gripped onto his package, and pushed him into the doorway. We watched in equal parts horror and amazement, as we knew Grandpa was about to get the surprise of his life— the door shut and Tarah giggled, her low voice echoing through the wooden door.
“Come here baby,” Grandpa said.
He screamed. Tarah laughed. He screamed again.
But he didn’t open the door. And we didn’t see him for the next hour.
Some people just need some loving and when they kicked us out back onto the dark streets, we all looked for something to make us feel wholesome again.
And we’d wait for that until Mike called the police on the old meth fiend and we’d all get together again.
Grandpa always waited in his doorway.