The dead man is baking in the street—green flies feast on his face. Dalton and the other SWAT cops are searching his pockets. Daddy is standing by his lonely self at the corner. How bald he is. How little hair he has left. Don the policeman chortles: that guy is a stone-cold sap. Piss on him.
God help you, daddy. Don’t you understand anything? Your hair has to be correct, along with the rest of you. I say that with kindness. But I won’t wait forever for you to get it together.
I want to cry—the Prolixin won’t let me.
I double-check to make sure the silver lamé gown is safe in my sweatpants. Then I see an agitated and shirtless man storm past the police line. Next thing I know he’s cornering me in El Pueblo’s parking lot. It’s Rudy from Muscoy.
“Sugar Child! You check those damn shootings? No? Myself? I can’t stand this shit no more. But I gotta calm down. I just gotta.”
Death scares Rudy. I see that in his slightly crossed eyes, how shiny they are. But death doesn’t scare me. I’ve always been close to it. Rudy talks faster: “Anyhow, where you been lately?”
“I was in lockdown.”
“Yeah? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I got through it, more or less.”
“Where’s your wig? That platinum beauty queen thing.”
“SWAT confiscated it.”
“Wow. That’s vindictive. What dogs. You gonna sue them?”
“Stop it.”
“Fine. Fuck it. I’ll keep the sympathy I got for all living things, including your wig, to myself. All I gotta do is remain calm. Now look here. Alonzo talk to you?”
“Who?”
“Alonzo. My brother. The fat fuck.”
“I don’t know the cat.”
“He met you last night. At some weird-ass party.”
“People talk shit.”
“You saying Alonzo’s talking shit? You ain’t the only one.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Good for you. That’s wise.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So let me ask you something else. See that douche bag across the street? The beggar with the bucket? He ain’t no priest. He ain’t nothing but Alonzo’s friend.”
“I told you. I don’t know Alonzo.”
“Fair enough. You win. Christ, it’s hot.”
Don the policeman wheedles: I’m hot, too. Can we at least get in the shade? I retaliate: no, we can’t. I am not going to stand under a palm tree and wait for a rat to jump on my head. Don lashes out: you sorry piece of shit. Is that your only option? We could be indoors with air conditioning. You negative asshole.
Rudy butts in. “Sugar Child?”
“What?”
“You talking to yourself?”
“No.”
“You sure of that?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“Then who you talking to?”
“Don the policeman.”
“Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend. We’re having a fight.”
“You and him squabble a lot?”
“All the time. We’ve been at it for days now.”
“When you ain’t fighting, he treat you good?”
“No, never has.”
“Why are you with him then?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“That bad, huh? Sometimes you have to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“You should be a psychiatrist.”
“Damn straight. And you know what else? I’m going to Los Angeles. Gonna take the Greyhound there.”
“How come?”
“To get away from this mess. Maybe go to the beach. Work on my tan. Meet some movie stars. Only problem is, the bus takes a million hours.”
“I want to go, too.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Gangs at the beach, they’ll punk your ass.”
“I ain’t afraid. I’m from Muscoy. And I can’t even swim.”
“That your secret weapon?”
“It is.”
“People are weird in Los Angeles.”
“And what are we?”
I look at him through Prolixin eyes. “Different.”
I take leave of Rudy and plod up E Street. Pigeons wing to and fro above the palm trees. The overheated air jumps with mosquitos and flies. The sun beats on my head with a violence that makes me doubt I am alive—it’s possible without my knowledge or permission I have died. And this is the underworld: pickup trucks with gun racks. Pedestrians stooped from heat fatigue. Smog thicker than ice cream. Don the policeman guffaws: you don’t know anything. You’re retarded.
I brood about daddy—if only he were handsome. Don the policeman crows: I heard that. You think the baldheaded motherfucker is better than me? Wrong. No one will put up with your shit the way I do. Who was with you in jail? Who was there at the halfway house? And in lockdown? Do I have to spell it out? Without me, you ain’t nada. Plain and simple.
The Prolixin has failed to stop Don—it’s done little to suppress his appetite for abusive repartee. Somehow, I’ve got to rid myself of his madness—if just for a day. That’s not much to ask for, but it’s too much to think about right now.
My caseworker Rick? He doesn’t know what to do with me. He says: treatment. I’ve seen people after treatment. After the twenty-eight-day program. Twenty pounds overweight from eating surplus government commodities. Medicated to the gills on mood elevators and psychotropics. Hands shaking like birds’ wings. Forget treatment.