Once upon a time, in and around the alley

Love grows, anger seethes, and we’ll forgiven if we can get through all of this with our eyes open.

I am walking one day, alone, hands thrust into my pockets as I pass through an alley wedged between a row of paint-stripped garages connected by rotting wooden fence posts and a chain-link fence that binds a school’s asphalt playground that always seems empty. When I walk through this alley, my attention inexplicably shifts to the beat-up garages, as bits of glass and refuse crunch under my shoes.

I know that the first garage, despite its ramshackle veneer, houses a H2 Hummer. I’d see the man, hair oiled and slicked back, looking over his shoulder as he inches the hulking vehicle back into the tiny space, the gold rings on his fingers sweeping across the steering wheel as the giant wheels groan in alignment. After parking, this man would have a quick exchange with an elderly woman that oftentimes came out to greet him, dropping the keys into her hands before disappearing around the corner. The second garage holds a dog that madly barks as it claws the thin door whenever I pass by. I get rattled every time this happens, even if I know exactly what to expect. I guess I imagine the garage door finally disintegrating and suddenly having a row of teeth sawing at my neck. I’ve learned to keep a steady pace, however. Being jumpy wouldn’t help me in any situation.

The third garage door never opens; it’s covered in an overgrowth of vines that have taken residence deep within the surrounding concrete. The last two garages are inconsequential. Actually, I don’t remember any details about them because they were wholly unremarkable. But there definitely are 5 garages on that stretch. Between the 4th and 5th garage is a telephone pole covered with peeling Lost and Found queries. Sometimes, I would take pictures of them and think of reasons why they ran away or lost themselves.

I’ve seen dead rats curled up by the garbage bins that line the streets every Tuesday, and I’ve seen a homeless couple fornicating behind the dumpster sitting at the end of the alley on a clear Sunday morning, birds hidden in a nearby tree singing between the raspy moans and the man wheezing “Fuck that pussy”. Just 2 blocks away from this alley is a 7-11 that’s heavily solicited; I had gotten some ice cream there one time with a friend and had just stepped out of the store to take the back alley home, only to be treated to the sight of a disheveled woman pulling down her sweatpants and underwear to piss on a wall. The resulting trickle settled into a cloudy pool next to a stained twin-sized mattress propped against the wall. “Mmm shit yeah feels good,” she said, bracing herself against the wall with both hands. I was licking an orange sherbet Flintstones push-pop, something I’ve loved since I was 6. I don’t remember what my friend got, but I think it was chocolate.

On another night, that same friend and I had make acquaintances with a travelling couple in front of the 7-11. They are drinking whiskey and coke out of a Super Big-Gulp cup and they offer us some. We oblige, taking turns sipping from the same green straw as we sit on the concrete parking blocks, the ensuing conversation drifting towards their method of making money on the side. The man becomes silent, as if contemplating the floor in front of him. The girl looks at us and asks, “So, you guys ever try Molly?” We shake our heads. “You gotta try it some time. It’s like Adam, but not as speedy.” She smiles at us, causing her nose to wrinkle. We’re skeptical. But we take down the girl’s phone number to be polite. Two weeks later, we end up calling her to check on her inventory. “Yeah, I have some of that. But I’ve got a date later tonight. Do you think you can come pick it up right now?” Suddenly we’re out the apartment and into the car, racing towards sweet oblivion.

4 hours later: “I don’t feel shit.” We’re sitting on the couch, staring at the TV but not really watching it.

We were walking back to the apartment some other time at 2 am. There’s a tattered woman with pain written on her face, leaning against a car that’s obviously not hers. Her friend/boyfriend/husband/companion’s eyes are desperate as they lock on anyone who gives him a moment’s worth of eye contact. I keep my head down, but my friend is careless. “HEY! HEY! Hey man! My girl here is having some chest pains. I think it might be her heart. Man lemme use your cell phone so I can call a motherfuckin’ doctor, aight?” We keep walking. “HEY man I’m talking to you! We gotta call now man! Look at her!” The man is missing a few front teeth. His skin is covered in dirt and grime. My friend slows his pace, though never completely stopping, and says, “uh…I gotta go.”

My friend is a little drunk.

We’ve already walked past the man. “You gotta… go? What the fuck kind of bullshit is this? ‘I GOTTA GO’.”

We walk faster.

“FUCK YOU, man! ‘I GOTTA GO!? Get the fuck out of here you piece of shit. FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!” His cursing follows even after we round the corner, his hoarse voice tearing into the night. “Fuck this shit!”

A couple of days later, I see the couple standing at their usual spot, eyes glassy as they constantly shift their weight between their feet, sweating the day away.

Before the alley, I walk past a young white man with thick rimmed glasses wearing a T-shirt with skinny jeans. The shirt reads “Die, Hipster Scum.” He nods and smiles at me as we pass each other. I think that the definition of “irony” is completely lost on me at this point.

Past the alley and the 7-11 is a rusty train station. A train shudders to a halt every 12 minutes here, whisking some odd-dozen number of people towards a place where the walls aren’t stained in piss and where people wonder if tomorrow will be different and whether or not if that person walking across the street from them is good in bed.

But the birds don’t sing over there.