tell your best story

1.

 

The first thing the young man noticed was the stench. His nose wrinkled upon entering the building. Dirty bodies, unwashed for days were the main source. He could smell individual’s feet through their shoes and genitalia through their pants. The young man’s penis seemed to recede inside of him. That happened sometimes when he felt extreme distaste.

 

A security guard stopped him as he crossed the threshold of the lobby. Forcibly.

 

“Woah woah woah, hold up there.”

 

The security guard put his hand on the young man’s chest.

 

“You got ID?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Take off your bags.”

 

The young man sighed and shrugged off his two backpacks. His shoulders were relieved. He handed over his ID, and held up his arms as the guard ran the metal detector over him, then pat him down. He wasn’t holding anything illegal, but the process unnerved him. The guard gave back the young man’s ID, along with a large garbage bag to put his backpacks in. His stomach clenched as he hoped his belongings were safe.

 

The young man found a place to sit in the waiting area. The people around him gave him dirty looks. He suddenly felt self-conscious of his relative youth and unmarred appearance. He looked like a clean-cut college kid, but here he was, among a band of miscreants, tangled in sin. There was a TV on, playing the preacher who owned the homeless shelter’s own TV station. It looked like propaganda. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and wondered if he had made a big mistake.

 

There were about seventy men in the big room. The young man peered about, taking in the scene and assessing it. The people around him talked amongst themselves, or stared at the TV, where a commercial was playing starring the Reverend Hachtel, the proprietor of the homeless shelter the young man was at. He had heard numerous bad things about the preacher. Supposedly, back in the late ‘70’s, he had a hand in his wife’s murder. Money. This is the kind of preacher who has an ATM machine in the lobby of his church with his face on the side, giving the viewer that knowing grin that always seemed to be plastered upon his face.

 

After thirty minutes or so of waiting in the lobby, someone walked up to the young man. He was white, early twenties, with a blond goatee peach fuzzy mustache.

 

“’Ey how’s it goin man?”

“Eh,” said the young man.

 

“Hey, I got three buttons man, twenty five bucks.”

 

The young man groaned. Addiction pounded in the young man’s head. His palms started sweating and he felt an all too familiar yearning feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Eh…I don’t think so man… I don’t even have that kind of money right-”

 

“Well never mind then. Talk to me when you have some fuckin money.”

 

“Yeah… I’ll remember that. Hey, what’s your name?”

 

“Pete,” said blondie.

 

“Dennis.”

 

They bumped fists and Pete departed, working the crowd.

 

Dennis hung his head as he walked up to the fifth floor. Once there, he walked around until he could find an open bed. He found one quickly, promptly lay on it, and then cursed the dirty blankets as the odor wafted up. Stale sweat and urine choked him as he pulled the covers up around him. The blankets touching him made his skin crawl, so he shrugged them off, pissed at the lack of security the blankets could have provided. He turned to his left, where he saw an elderly black man, obviously beaten down from his time on the streets. Dennis wondered if that was going to be him in twenty years.

 

“When do they shut off the lights?” asked Dennis.

 

“They don’t”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Dennis turned over on his right side and surveyed the scene. Bunk after bunk of burnt-out, worn-out, beat-down people. Fleeting thoughts of suicide skittered over the top of his exhausted brain. He pondered how he had gotten to this point, from a young man with limitless potential (oh how he now hated that word) to living on the streets with the dregs of society. Self-pity threatened to overtake his mind so he resisted the negativity as much as he could, for he was depressed enough already. A few bunks down, a man took a blast out of a crack pipe. The scent of marijuana grazed Dennis’s senses, triggering a hunger deep inside of him. He wanted an escape. No no no! Drugs got him into this situation in the first place, but despite knowing that, he wanted to use anyway. He reckoned that was the nature of the disease.

 

Since the first time Dennis picked up a joint in seventh grade, he found a comfort in drugs that had allowed him to feel like he was part of something, for he had felt uncomfortable in his own skin for as long as he could remember. He started first with weed, then hallucinogens, tranks, and then the ultimate – heroin. His downfall. If only it wasn’t better than sex, he mused, for truly it was. Better than sex and more important than anything else in the world. More important than family, friends, lovers, anything. Thankfully, he had not used heroin in a couple of months, so his last bout of dope-sickness had since past. Silently, he distracted his overactive mind by playing music in his head. The more complex, the better for distracting, for ten minutes later, despite the utter lack of comfort and the chaos around him, he fell dreamlessly asleep.

 

Somehow Dennis slept through the night, until five-thirty am, when the security officer on duty woke him and everyone else. Dennis moved as slow as molasses, making his way to the bathroom. As soon as he entered, he immediately regret it. The turtle head that had begun to poke out of his rear end crawled back up the second Dennis caught a glimpse of the condition of the toilets. Shit was caked half an inch thick on the seat, and two brown handprints decorated the stall walls, one on either side. He recalled it looking like a scene from a movie. Desperado? Yes, that’s it. He pissed in the urinal, where instead of a urinal cake, a piece of feces was battered with his forceful stream. He splashed some water on his face from the sink, and then made his way downstairs where he picked up his backpacks and two near-rotted bologna sandwiches that hopefully wouldn’t be his only meal for the day.

 

2.

 

Upon exiting the building, Dennis shivered in the cool, St. Louis May morning air. He knew it was going to be a scorcher though, if it was anything like the day before. He slowly walked down Washington Avenue as the sun began to rise, the warmth of the first rays of light lifting his spirits a bit. He walked about a half mile down Washington, then made a left at Tucker, heading down to the neighborhood McDonald’s so he could ease his overloaded bowels. Dennis was greeted warmly at the eatery from some of his fellow homeless buddies. He liked to think of his McDonald’s crew as the “upper echelon” of homeless folk. They were mostly an older crowd, victims of circumstance (if you believed them), and usually on disability. Dennis had met quite a few of this type of homeless while living out on the streets.

 

He made his way to the bathroom and promptly proceeded to unload the contents of his lower intestine. Relieved, he washed himself and shaved. Pleased with himself and feeling better, he left the bathroom, and then realized that he had forgotten to apply deodorant to his underarms. He smeared it on his left pit first, then the right. He winced in pain as the stick grazed his right pit. What the fuck? He gingerly touched his right armpit under his shirt and was surprised to find two small, marble sized lumps there. Puzzled, Dennis took off his shirt so he could better examine what was happening with his body. In the mirror, he saw no signs of irritation, no redness, nothing, other than the two raised lumps, about two inches from one another. He touched the two lumps again, bewildered, wondering how something like that could pop up overnight. Fuck it; we’ll see what happens. He threw his shirt back on and joined his friends for a cup of coffee.

 

“Maybe it’s Ebola”

 

“Shut the fuck up Chad.”

 

“Dude, don’t be stupid, it’s the HIV.”

 

“Shut the fuck up Brian.”

 

“Y’all are ‘tarded. It’s fuckin’ cancer”

 

“Shut the fuck up Bobo.”

 

Dennis was sorry he brought it up, despite expecting those sort of replies. Everyone there knew how important a sense of humor is on the streets.

 

“No seriously Dennis, what kind of D.O. do you use for your B.O?” This was Craig talking now.

 

“Degree, Cool Rush.”

 

“Does it have Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex as the main active ingredient?”

 

“Are you joking?”

 

“No, check.”

 

Dennis dug through his bags and checked.

 

“Yes, 17%. Wait a second. How the fuck did you know that shit off the top of your head like that?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m smart.”

 

“Ok….”

 

“At any rate, did you put it on today?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well go wash it off, and stop using that shit. You probably have a clogged sweat gland. Anti-persperant has the tendency to do that shit with some people, especially the shit with Aluminum. Just start using a non-aluminum-containing D.O.. It should clear up in a week or so as you sweat more.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“What?”

 

“I hate regular D.O.. It’ll pit the hell out of my shirts!”

 

“Cry me a fucking river ya little bitch. Wear wife beaters.”

 

“Man look at these arms. Ya see ‘em? These are not wife beater arms!”

 

“Do whatever the fuck you want Dennis. You’re welcome.”

 

“Thanks…. Professor cock-smoker.”

 

“Only your cock baby, only yours.”

 

“Lovely, just lovely…”

 

Dennis washed up under his pits and wondered where he was going to get a new deodorant with no money. Part of him was relieved though. It sounded like Craig knew what he was talking about, and if so, it was no big deal. He was afraid it might have had something to do with his lymph nodes, which was never a good thing. Lost in thought, he went back into the dining room to finish his coffee.

 

Dennis spent the first part of the day looking for a quiet and secluded spot to sleep that night. He had decided he wasn’t going to be caught dead in the Reverend Hachtel’s shelter again. That was no easy task considering he was in downtown St. Louis. After a couple of hours though, he found an abandoned grocery store, which wasn’t exactly hidden, but was off the main roads and in a neighborhood bad enough that most people would not tread there by night. It had about a ten-foot overhang in front so that if it rained, he would stay dry.

 

After he scoped out his spot for the night, Dennis slowly walked to the library, where he spent the majority of the afternoon reading, writing, and using the Internet. He noticed he was sweating more than usual without the anti-persperant, but he noticed no positive change with his two new lump friends. If anything, they felt a little larger, and even tenderer. He tried not to worry about it. Maybe it has to get worse before it gets better. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

 

3.

 

Dennis left the library at their six ‘o clock closing time, then walked back down to the McDonald’s. He had found enough change during the course of the day to buy a one-dollar “Big ‘N Tasty”, which he ordered sans mayo and onion, but with extra pickle. He hung out by himself and read until the manager on duty kicked him out for not ordering anything in too long. Store policy my fucking dick.

 

By the time Dennis started walking back to his sleeping spot in front of the store, the sun was just over the horizon, painting the sky a deep orange and red. As he walked across the parking lot, Dennis started feeling uneasy about his surroundings. He knew he didn’t have anything of value that a would-be robber would want, but he also knew how senseless people were, especially the kind of desperate folk that would be lurking around this neighborhood at night. Fuck it. Too late now. Too late to get back into the shelter, and too late to find a new spot. At least it was deserted. He laid out dozens of the free St. Louis Argus newspaper on the concrete ground, and then put his towel on top of that. While his “bed” was harder than a porn-star’s member, it would have to do.

 

Dennis was watching the last of the sun hide behind the trees in the distance when he noticed a figure ambling in his direction. Stumbling more like it. Great… Dennis did not look down on drunkards per se (no room to talk, do ya ken?), but indeed he got annoyed with them, and regularly. In no mood for a conversation, let alone and argument, he vowed to be curt with the fellow, hoping he would get the hint and leave him alone. The closer the man got to Dennis, the more wasted he seemed. He shambled along like a zombie out of Night of the Living Dead. Dennis’s right armpit started throbbing painfully, despite being unprovoked by neither movement nor touch.

 

After what seemed like ages, the man finally reached the area where Dennis was sitting, and plopped himself down about ten feet away. His head lolled forward, and ropes of thick drool poured out of the man’s mouth, covering his chest with the nastiness.

 

“You got a lighter?” slurred the man, while digging in his pockets for what Dennis presumed to be cigarettes.

 

“Uh…yeah,” replied Dennis. He was tempted to say no, but that may have started something unpleasant, so he held it out to him.

 

“Shit! Can’t find ma smokeys!” said the man, still drooling on himself. A large wet spot decorated the front of his filthy tee shirt. How much spit can this dude make? Jesus! The man continued to pat his pockets absent-mindedly as he stared off into space. Dennis caught a glimpse of the man’s cigarettes in the man’s thin flannel that was on over his tee and snickered to himself. After a few minutes of awkward silence, the strange drooling man pulled out a blue handkerchief out of one of his jeans pockets and put it in his mouth, so about half of it hung out. What the fuck is this now? Dennis sat there quiet, waiting for something to happen. He was getting impatient. He wanted to relax. He wanted this drooling douche bag to get the fuck out. All of a sudden, the man crawled over to Dennis on his hands and knees. Breathing in his face, the man exclaimed, “Holy shit maaaan, eyes gunna miss dur bus!” pointing to one of the side roads. In that moment, Dennis understood. This man wasn’t drunk at all. With the man’s cry came the overpowering odor of model glue, so strong that it tickled Dennis’s nose. He had met huffers before, but had never seen one in this sorry of shape. Now intrigued, Dennis watched as the drooler clumsily leapt to his feet and made his way to the street nearest the closed-down store.

 

After he was out of sight, Dennis laid down on his towel, immediately feeling a sticky wetness on the side of his face. Fuuuuuuck! Thick, gooey, model glue scented saliva coated his cheek, prompting him to jump up, move away from his “bed space”, and vomit out of pure disgust. In that moment, the reality of Dennis’s situation hit him like a ton of bricks. How could I have let myself sink this low? How could I do this to myself, aware of the consequences from the beginning? Self-loathing filled him and he wanted to cry, but was unable. To top it all off, his armpit throbbed where the lumps were, making Dennis even more distraught. Physical pain never helped a situation for him, and this particular pain, at this particular moment, nearly sent him over the edge. He wanted to get high bad. He couldn’t take it. But I can. I can take it. He practiced some deep breathing techniques his old psychologist had taught him for a few minutes and tried to relax. After a while, it started working, so he wiped off his towel as best as he could, then flipped it over, drool side down. He opened up one of his backpacks and took out two tee shirts and a pair of sweatpants, which he rolled up and formed into a pillow. He grabbed his CD player out of his other backpack and lay down, zoning out to complex electronic beats. Ahh… Beautiful. The pain in his armpit dissipated almost entirely as he was enveloped in the blissful beats and blips. He lay there and listened, hoping to fall asleep, but his environment would not allow that. Despite the parking lot in front of the store being nearly pitch black by then, Dennis could see figures walking in the distance. Even though they minded their own business, it still made him nervous. Consequently, when the CD had ended about seventy minutes later, Dennis was wide-awake, and getting worked up again. He gently probed his armpit and winced at the pain. He was shocked to discover that his lumps had nearly doubled in size, both in height and width. He longed for a mirror so he could see exactly what it looked like down there because he could not see too well from above. He could tell that the lumps were not sores, as there was no kind of fluid leakage or opening. Clogged sweat glands my ass. Anxiety was never conducive to sleep as far as Dennis was concerned, and consequently, it took another two hours or so before he finally fell asleep.

 

4.

 

Dennis woke up the next morning to the sound of a large engine. Looking up he saw a semi truck driving around the parking lot, maneuvering in between some orange road cones. “Rigid Roadway Truck School” was printed on the side of the truck’s trailer. Dennis groaned and looked at his watch. 9:39 AM. Damnit! He wanted to go back to sleep, sleep away the day, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen, so he packed up his belongings and got ready to walk down to the library. Upon putting on his first backpack, he screamed out in pain as he lifted his right arm. He dropped the backpack and whipped of his shirt, trying to get a glimpse of his armpit. What he saw made his stomach clench. His two lumpy friends had seemingly grown together, forming one large lump, looking like half of a baseball. The majority of the armpit hair that had covered the lump had fallen out in his sleep, and the lump itself was covered with tiny, pus filled blisters. He took a pen out of his backpack and delicately touched one of the blisters. With almost no pressure at all, the blister popped, releasing a fetid whitish fluid, thicker than water, but not as thick as pus, as he had first supposed. As the fluid trickled down his armpit, it rolled over many of the other blisters, popping tem in the process. The pain was so intense that Dennis saw spots in his burning, watery eyes. His breath grew ragged as he hyperventilated, and after a minute or so of that, he passed out, head smacking the concrete.

 

5.

 

When Dennis woke, he was confused, thinking that he had just woke from a horrifying dream. That thought lasted for about two seconds, as he felt his throbbing armpit, and noticed his shirt was off. The strange fluid dripped from his armpit down his hide, and glancing at the lump, he noticed that where the blisters had popped, they had sealed up, and were now filled with blood. Dennis groaned. He was scared now. Out of his mind scared. He did not know what to do, where to turn to. Should I go to the emergency room? Shit, where the hell is there even a hospital? 911? No no no… He had to get these thoughts out of his head. They would ask for identification. Even if he said he had no ID, they’d want a social security number. He knew he was wanted on a federal warrant out of Chicago. Shit, it wasn’t my fault those brothers got killed! How was I supposed to know Diego and Wallace had that kind of history when I set up that deal? Dennis was just trying to pay the rent, but he ended up having to leave everything back in Chicago. His family, friends, belongings, job, animals, and everything else. Damn habit.

 

Dennis shook his head. He was in agony. The pain was immense, now as much mental as it was physical. He felt like a kid lost in the woods, which essentially, he was. He needed a distraction. Some H perhaps, but no, he was in no condition to hustle money. Plus, I’m trying to stay away from that shit, he mused, more of an afterthought than anything else. So he rifled through one of his bags, looking for something to occupy his mind. A moment later, he came across a “Where and When” – a small, pocket-sized booklet that listed all of the local A.A. meetings. The second he saw it, a light bulb flashed over his head. On the backside of the “Where and When”, was the number for A.A.’s local central services. He quickly stuffed the booklet into his back shorts pocket, slipped on his shirt, hid his backpacks within a nest of nasty looking bushes, and then took to the streets, on a quest for fifty cents and a payphone.

 

He started walking down Tucker toward a Shell station a mile up the road. Looking to the ground most of the way, he found two nickels and two dimes. He hit up a pretty mom at one of the gas pumps for a quarter, and he was good to go.

 

Dennis called up Central Services, and inquired about an A.A. meeting for professionals. There was bound to be a doctor there. Unfortunately, there wasn’t one to his specifications for another two days. Fuck. FUCK! What a waste of time and energy. His armpit picked that moment to explode in anal-clenching agony. He ran into the ally next to the gas station and took off his shirt, knowing that what he was going to see was going to be bad. He was correct.

 

Dennis had sweated profusely on the way to the gas station, and that was very apparent as he gazed at his armpit in disgust. The pus and blood filled blisters were now swollen with sweat, looking like flesh colored bubbles that protruded out a centimeter apiece. Panicked, he ran shirtless into the bathroom on the side of the gas station so he could glimpse his malady in the mirror. The bathroom was revolting but nowhere near the abomination contained within the Reverend Hachtel’s homeless shelter. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper to wipe off the smeared mirror so he could see clearer, that being yet another decision he lamented over the past two days. Nothing could have prepared him for what his eyes discerned. He shook his head with incredulity. Am I hallucinating? Diluted with sweat, the fluids encased inside the flesh bubbles were more transparent than previously.

 

Floating within the flesh bubbles were tiny tadpole-like creatures. They were small, about half the length of the fingernail on his pinkie finger. He tenderly touched one of the bubbles, tenderly, as not to break it, and the creature inside stirred, giving Dennis a better look. It was, as far as Dennis could see, eyeless, and running down the middle of it’s oval shaped head was a row of tiny spikes, almost like a mohawk. The spikes continued down its tail, which was hooked. Dennis was amazed at the level of detail he was able to see the things, despite the thin layer of soft tissue that contained them. After a moment though, the astonishment wore off, leaving him with nothing other than a queerish feeling in his gut. The more he thought about how utterly deranged and sickening the situation was, the more nauseous he got, and he promptly disgorged into the sink in front of him, spattering his bare chest with his vomit and blood. Blood? Oh my- Behind him, someone knocked on the door, three times, and hard.