The Jigsaw Man - By Gord Rollo Page 0,1
wished
it would.
Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? How can I be
so weak? So stupid?
Good questions. N o t so easy to answer. Everyone on
the street has their own dragon,, their own personal
demon that keeps them in check. Whatever it is, it'll
make you feel good, sure, let you soar with the eagles
for a while, but it's a hell of a fall back to ground level.
Dreams were for regular people, not guys like me. Ev¬
ery time I got too cocky, started thinking I might make
it out of here back to the real world, the dragon reared
up and bit me on the ass again, making damn sure I
knew my place.
To each his own, but my dragon's name was Sterno,
that stinky blue-flamed fuel people used to warm their
hands on ski trips or to caramelize brandy inside those
big glasses when they ordered dessert coffees in fancy
restaurants. You can buy Sterno easily enough but it's
expensive and to be honest, I didn't need to buy it. I
broke into cars for mine. It's common knowledge for
hardcore street folks, especially the people who've sur
vived long enough to learn what's what up here in the
colder climates, that the emergency kits people carry
around in the glove box or under their front seat are
mini gold mines. They held the kind of things we reg
ularly needed: matches, Band-Aids, aspirins, needle and
thread, chocolate, and—surprise—a little container of
Sterno fuel, in case you broke down in the snow and
needed a little heat to make it through a cold night un
til help arrived.
You strained it through a slice of bread, which got rid
of most of the poisonous shit, then drank the alcohol
base that was left. Don't try it; it's horrible tasting, a lot
like wood alcohol, but man does it make your problems
go away in a hurry.
So I finally dry-heaved my way into a sitting posi
tion, reminding myself that it had been a few days
since my last meal. I was thirsty. Really thirsty, and like
magic this bottle of water appeared in front of my
eyes. There's a hand attached to the bottle, and my
eyes followed the dark-skinned arm up, surprised to
see the only real friend I had left in the world smiling
down at me. -
Blue J was an all right dude, once you got by his ever-
increasing penchant for sniffing glue, and his rather
nasty habit of vomiting on himself while sleeping it
off.
His name had been Jason when I first met him, a
real good-looking guy. Tall, dark piercing eyes, smooth
black skin—looked a bit like Wesley Snipes, without
the attitude. Unfortunately, life on the street had sto
len his good looks. His pretty-boy ebony skin had
turned pasty and discolored, for some strange reason
turning a shade closer to blue than black. I didn't know
it it was all the glue he sniffed or the cheap booze he
guzzled, but that was why I changed his name. What
ever I called him, he was a decent guy, bad complexion
and all.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "Wanna sip?"
Man, did I. I had this god-awful taste in my mouth,
and I could just imagine the foul smell of my breath
right now. I grabbed the water and drained the whole
bottle in a greedy series of gulps. It wasn't until I was
done and handing the bottle back that I noticed my
friend wasn't alone. He had a woman with him. Well,
more of a girl than a woman, but who was I to judge.
She was pretty: dark hair, nice legs, and a big set of cans
squeezed into a dress two sizes too small. She was a lit
tle dirty and rough-looking around the edges but hey,
weren't we all?
"This here's my man, Mike," Blue J said to her.
She nodded, apparently satisfied. I might have asked
what her name was but I had a good idea where this was
leading so her name wasn't really important. I put a half
smile on my face—the best I could do with my head
still pounding—and went with the flow.
"What's up, J?" I asked, eyeing the girl's curvy body,
quickly moving from one vice to the next as I climbed
shakily to my feet.
"Well, unless you got 'portant places to go, this here
fine lady say she wanna party with us. Dig?"
I dug.
Blue J wasn't the handsome man he'd once been, and
Lord knows I wasn't anyone's definition of a lady-killer,
but we still made out all right. Why? Simple: at the
start of each month—for as long as they lasted—we had
drugs. J received a monthly prescription of Valium,
clonazepam, and Haldol as part of his Vets disability.
He'd only spent five months over in Desert Storm, but
he'd convinced some doctor at the VA hospital he was
suffering from depression and combat